u-m/     (r. 


LITERARY  RAMBLES 
AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD 


BY  DR.  WOLFE 

*» 
A  LITERARY  PILGRIMAGE 

Among  the  Haunts  of  Famous  British  Authors 
LITERARY  SHRINES 

The  Haunts  of  Some  Famous  American  Authors 
LITERARY  HAUNTS    AND    HOMES 

American  Authors 
LITERARY  RAMBLES 

At  Home  and  Abroad 

Uniform  in  size  and  binding 
Each  volume  illustrated  -with  four  photogravures 
Crushed  Buckram  $1.2$  per  volume.    Half  Calf  or 
Half  Morocco  $J.OO  per  -volume.     Sold  separately 
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LITERARY 
RAMBLES 

AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD 


BY   THEODORE   F.  WOLFE 
M.D.  PH.D. 

AUTHOR  OF  A  LITERARY  PILGRIMAGE,  LITER- 
ARY SHRINES,  LITERARY  HAUNTS  AND  HOMES 
ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA  &  LONDON 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY 

MDCCCCI 


COPYRIGHT,  1900, 

BY 
THEODORE  F.  WOLFK. 


PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA,  U.S.A. 


SRLFj 


PREFACE 


T  IKE  its  predecessors,  this  volume  is  complete 
in  itself;  nevertheless  I  am  desirous  that  it 
should  be  appraised  in  connection  with  the  preced- 
ing volumes,  to  which  it  is  related.  The  first  five 
chapters  herein  presented  extend  the  list  of  American 
authors  whose  homes  and  resorts  are  sketched  in  the 
books  "Literary  Shrines"  and  "Literary  Haunts 
and  Homes";  the  later  chapters  add  to  the  succes- 
sion of  popular  British  authors  the  scenes  of  whose 
lives  and  works  are  treated  of  in  "A  Literary  Pil- 
grimage. ' ' 

Like  its  predecessors,  too,  the  materials  for  this  vol- 
ume have  been  derived  from  repeated  or  prolonged 
sojourns  in  the  localities  described,  and  from  per- 
sonal intercourse  and  correspondence  with  many  of 
the  authors  mentioned  or  with  their  surviving  families 
and  friends. 

Most  of  these  chapters  were  written  beside  the 
dying-bed  of  my  wife,  my  sympathetic  and  appreci- 
ative companion  in  the  rambles  upon  which  this  and 
the  earlier  volumes — dedicated  to  her — are  founded: 
the  final  chapter  was  completed  bv  her  grave. 

T.  F.  W. 
5 


CONTENTS 


AT   HOME 

PAGE 

ALONG  THE  HUDSON:   HOMES  AND  THEMES  OF 

MANY  AUTHORS. 

Poe—Audubon—  Coxssens—  Artemus  Ward—  South-worth— 
John  Kendrick  Bangs  —  Butler  —  Dr.  Sha-w  —  Win- 
ston Churchill—  Irving  —  Warner  Sisters— Bigeloio  — 
Roe  —  Morris  —  Willis  —  Mrs.  Barr  —  Headley  — 
Verplanck—Joel  Benton—John  Burroughs— Paul- 
ding— Ichabod  Crane ,  etc.,  etc 15 

A  NEW   JERSEY    RAMBLE  :    LITERARY  LAND- 
MARKS OF  NEWARK,  ETC. 

Cooper  and  Irving  Scenes  —  Hoboken  —  Sands  —  Bryant  — 
Halleck-Neivark- The  Gilders -Dr.  Coles-Talley- 
rand —  Chateaubriand  —  Shelley"  s  Grandfather  — 
Stephen  Crane  —  Stedman  —  Mrs.  Dodge  —  Marion 
Harland—Dr.  Ward  — Amanda  M.  Douglas— Mrs. 
Kinney  —  Noah  Brooks  —  Thomas  Dunn  English  — 
Thomas  Moore  —  Cockloft  Hall  —  Ray  Palmer  — 
Henry  William  Herbert,  etc 39 

WHERE  STOCKTON  WROTE  HIS  STORIES. 
Rutherford  Home  —  Scenes  of  Rudder  Grange  -  Pomona  — 
Other   Characters  -  The   Holt,   Madison  -  Authors 

7 


Contents 

PAGE 

Workshop  —  Historic  Morristovjn  and  its  Writers  — 
Virginia  Scenes  of  Fiction  — Mrs.  Null  —  Ardii 
Claverden,  etc.  —  Stockton's  Present  Home  — Study— 
Conversations  —  Method  of  Literary  Work  —  Solu- 
tions of  ft  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger  f  "  etc.  ...  64 

THE  HAUNTS  or  WALT  WHITMAN. 
Camden—  The  Ferry—  Whitman" i  Comrades—  Where  his 
Mother  Died— Stevens  Street- Eminent  Visitors  — 
Mickle  Street  House  —  Poet's  Chamber  and  Associa- 
tions —  Poems—  Relics—  Timber  Creek—  Whitman's 
Resorts  in  Field  and  Wood— His  Funeral— His 
Tomb 85 

A  LITERARY  PILGRIMAGE  BY  THE  DELAWARE. 

Cooper' s  Ancestors  —  Birthplace  —  Burlington  —  Dr.  Eng- 
lish —  Frank  R.  Stockton  —  Bordentown  —  Hopkinson 
—  Paine  -  Gilder  -  Trenton  -  Where  Dr.  Abbott 
Lives  and  Writes— His  Habits  of  Composition  — 
Places  of  Discoveries  and  Sketches  —  Scenes  of  Fic- 
tion— "  Clementine"  Hovjarth 100 


ABROAD 

STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

Thames-Side  Literary  Landmarks  —  Avon  Vale  —  Strat- 
ford-The  Birthplace  -  Nevj  Place -Guild  Chapel 
—  Grammar  School  —  Holy  Trinity  Church  —  The 
Tomb  —  Memorial  —  Dr.  Hall  —  Red  Horse  Inn  — 
Hathaivay  Cottage  —  Where  Shakespeare  "was  Mar- 
ried—Other  Shrines  121 

8 


Contents 

PAGE 

BYRON'S  HARROW  :  KENSAL  GREEN. 
Some  London  Shrines—  Graves  of  Thackeray,  Hunt,  Sydney 
Smith,  Hood,  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  Dickens's  Little 
Nell,  etc.— Harrow  School  —  Eminent  Pupils— By- 
ron's School-room-  Relics -Resorts  —  His  School  Days 
and  Friends  —  His  Daughter' s  Grave  —  His  Mary  — 
View  from  Hill 140 

THE  GRAVE  or  CHILDE  HAROLD. 

Hucknall-Torkard— Market-place— Ancient  Church  Tower 
— Recollections  of  Byron' s  Funeral— Perfunctory\Cere- 
monial—  The  Byron  Vault  and  Contents—  The  Poet 
and  Ada— Joe  Murray  —  Byron  s  Monument— His 
Daughter' s— Notable  Visitors  — La  Guiccioli,  etc  .  157 

THE  AYRSHIRE  BURNSLAND. 

Shrines  by  the  Way  —  Old  Ayr  —  Tarn  o'  Shanter  Inn  — 
Alloway  Cottage  —  Relics  —  Haunted  Kirk  —  Brig 
o*  Doon  —  Mount  Oliphant  —  Lochlea  —  Tarbolton  — 
Homes  of  Bonnie  Jean  and  Mary  Morison  —  Poosie 
Nansie's  —  Hamilton's  —  Churchyard  of  Holy  Fair  — 
Mossgiel  —  Scenes  of  Poems  —  Shanter  Farm  .  .  170 

THE     ENGLISH    LAKELAND     AND    ITS     MANY 

WRITERS. 

Jane  Eyre— Robert  Elsmere— Wilson' s  Elleray—Hemans— 
Harriet  Martineau  —Arnold—  Rydal  Mount—  Nab 
Cottage  —  Dove  Cottage  —  Wordsworth  and  De 
S^uincey  —  Scenes  of  "  Opium-Eater"  —  Grasmere 
Church  and  Churchyard  —  Helvellyn  —  Words- 
worth's  Birthplace  and  School  —  Raskin's  Brant- 
wood—  Scenes  of  Hall  Caine's  Fiction  —  Shelley' s 
Cottage  —  Home  of  Coleridge  and  Southey  .  .  .  190 

9 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

Claymont,  the  Home  of  Frank  R.  Stockton     Frontispiece 

Tomb  of  Walt  Whitman 98 

Ancient  Hucknall  Church 158 

Dove  Cottage 200 


AT  HOME 


ALONG   THE   HUDSON: 

HOMES  AND   THEMES   OF 

MANY   AUTHORS 


Poe—Audubon  —  Cozzens  —Artemus  Ward—  Southiuortk  —John 
Kendrick  Bangs  —  Butler—  Dr.  Shaw  —  Winston  Churchill 
—Irving—  Warner  Sisters  —Bigeloiv-Roe  -Morris  -  Willis- 
Mrs.  Barr—  Headley—  Verplanck—Joel  Benton-John  Bur- 
roughs— Paulding—Ichabod  Crane,  etc.t  etc. 


the  wilderness  to  the  ocean  the  course 
of  the  lordly  Hudson  is  replete  with  the  en- 
chantments of  poetry,  romance,  and  tradition. 
From  the  time  of  Juet's  quaint  narrative  of  its 
first  exploration  the  river  has  been  the  scene  of 
events  which  have  been  recounted  in  every  form 
of  literature,  while  its  legendary  associations  and 
its  beauties  of  flood  and  shore  have  inspired  many 
noble  works  of  art.  For  the  literary  wayfarer 
the  majestic  stream  has  the  added  charm  of  inti- 
mate connection  with  the  lives  of  gifted  writers 
who  have  found  homes  as  well  as  themes  upon 
its  banks,  and  have  embalmed  in  their  books  its 
scenery  and  traditions. 

Irving  gave  to  it  the  devotion  of  a  lifetime  and, 
although  the  tales  of  Cooper  invest  its  upper 
course  with  the  glamour  of  romance,  yet  it  is 
chiefly  to  the  facile  pen  of  Irving  that  the  Hud- 
son owes  its  opulence  of  poetical  and  sentimental 


Literary  Rambles 

associations ;  everywhere  along  the  lower  and 
middle  reaches  of  the  river  —  the  portions  tra- 
versed in  this  ramble  —  we  may  find  the  impress 
of  his  genius  and  love. 

Opposite  to  the  city  of  Irving's  birth  lies  Ho- 
boken,  the  sometime  home  of  Bryant  and  Sands, 
which  gave  title  to  Fay's  once  popular  romance, 
and  a  little  way  beyond  is  the  spot,  sung  by  the 
muse  of  Sands  where,  at  the  foot  of  the  ledge  by 
the  riverside,  the  great  writer  of  "  The  Fede- 
ralist" fell  by  the  hand  of  Burr.  Above  this 
place  tower  the  cliffs  of  the  Weehawken  of 
Halleck's  "  Fanny,"  where  the  rambler  may 
yet  enjoy  the  view  of  "  city,  shore,  and  sparkling 
bay,"  which  entranced  the  poet,  although  he 
will  find  much  of  the  great  crags  broken  into 
paving-blocks  and  the  "poetic  solitudes,"  once 
frequented  by  Halleck,  Bryant,  Sands,  and  Ver- 
planck,  profaned  by  beer  gardens. 

From  the  Manhattan  shore  at  the  foot  of 
Eighty-third  Street  rises  a  rocky  knoll  where  Poe 
often  sat  and  looked  upon  the  river's  moving 
tides  while  he  meditated  his  compositions ;  possi- 
bly "The  Raven"  was  pondered  here,  since 
there  is  some  reason  to  believe  it  was  written 
while  the  poet  boarded  with  the  Brennans  in 
this  neighborhood.  In  a  hostelry  which  over- 
looked the  river  from  the  "  Claremont  Hill"  of 
16 


Weehawken  —  Poe  and  Cozzens 

Doctor  van  Dyke's  poem,  Halleck  sojourned  when 
he  wrote  the  epiclet  of  "Fanny,"  and  a  mile  be- 
yond we  find,  by  the  green  river-bank,  the  embow- 
ered mansion  —  menaced  now  with  demolition  — 
in  which  the  great  Audubon  lived,  worked  and 
died,  and  the  shaded  spot  in  the  near-by  cemetery 
where  he  lies  in  the  last  sleep. 

A  few  miles  above  the  "Spijt  den  Duyvel"  of 
Knickerbocker's  veracious  chronicle  still  stands  near 
the  shore  the  picturesque  "  Chestnut  Cottage  "  of 
Frederick  S.  Cozzens,  little  changed  since  that 
genial  author  dwelt  and  wrote  here  and  made  this 
spot  the  scene  of  the  humorous  incidents  of  his 
"  Sparrowgrass  Papers"  and  other  sketches.  Coz- 
zens here  entertained  his  literary  friends — Halleck, 
Thackeray,  Irving,  Monckton  Milnes  and  others  of 
lesser  fame.  Financial  reverses  subsequently  obliged 
him  to  remove  from  the  place,  but  his  mortal  part 
was  brought  at  last  to  rest  in  the  cemetery  of  this 
"ancient  Dorp  of  Yonkers"  not  far  from  his  be- 
loved home.  In  Yonkers  we  find,  on  Pine  Street, 
a  pretty  cottage,  now  enlarged,  in  which  that  prince 
of  jesters,  Artemus  Ward,  lived  for  a  time,  and 
wrote  some  of  his  irresistibly  droll  articles,  and 
which  he  bequeathed  to  his  mother ;  on  a  corner 
of  Warburton  Avenue,  not  far  away,  the  prolific 
writer,  Mrs.  Southworth,  whose  name  was  so  dear 
to  novel  readers  of  the  past  generation,  dwelt  for 
B  17 


Literary  Rambles 

some  years  and  produced  a  score  or  so  of  her  numer- 
ous tales. 

In  this  neighborhood,  too,  the  clever  and  vivacious 
John  Kendrick  Bangs  has  composed  most  of  his 
books.  His  present  residence  is  a  tasteful  and  com- 
modious villa  set  in  a  garden  on  North  Broadway  ; 
his  library  is  a  spacious  book-lined  south  room,  com- 
manding a  superb  view  that  embraces  the  opposite 
Palisades  and  a  long  reach  of  the  shining  river,  and 
here  he  accomplishes  his  editorial  work  and  writes 
delightful  books  like  «« Coffee  and  Repartee,"  "A 
House-Boat  on  the  Styx,"  "Ghosts  I  Have  Met," 
etc.  An  elegant  and  substantial  mansion  on  the 
summit  of  a  terraced  hill  near  by  has  long  been  the 
home  of  the  millionaire  lawyer-author,  William  Allen 
Butler  —  best  known  as  the  godfather  of  Flora 
McFlimsey  —  who  has  here  produced,  besides  his 
prose  compositions,  many  more  thoughtful  and  meri- 
torious poems  than  "Nothing  to  Wear." 

At  Hastings  we  find,  by  the  river-shore,  a  sightly 
little  bluff  which  once  held  the  summer  home  of 
David  Dudley  Field,  the  eminent  legal  author,  and 
the  spot  is  especially  interesting  now  since  it  is  the 
chosen  habitation  of  that  erudite  essayist,  editor,  and 
writer  on  municipal  government,  Doctor  Shaw  of 
The  Review  of  Reviews,  ,  Ardsley,  a  few  miles 
above,  was  for  a  time  the  abode  of  Winston  Church- 
ill;  he  dwelt  in  a  long,  low,  irregular,  rambling 
18 


Winston  Churchill,  Bangs,  Irving 

house  on  Broadway,  and  it  was  here,  in  the  autumn 
of  1896,  that  he  began  to  write  "  Richard  Carvel," 
the  vivid  and  picturesque  historical  novel  which  ob- 
tained such  prodigious  vogue. 

Irving' s  charming  homelet  —  now  a  minor  part 
of  the  mansion  which  his  grand-nephew  inhabits  — 
stands  amid  scenes  he  made  familiar  to  his  readers, 
and  looks  out,  between  the  trees  he  planted,  upon 
the  river  of  his  love.  His  "dear  little  Sunnyside," 
Tarrytown,  and  that  mystic  region  of  Sleepy  Hollow 
where  Irving  now  sleeps  in  the  spot  his  pen  has  im- 
mortalized, are  sketched  in  a  previous  volume  of  this 
series.1  The  Tappan  Sea,  which  figures  in  more 
than  one  of  Irving's  legends,  lies  before  these  Irving 
shrines ;  upon  its  opposite  shore  is  Piermont  and, 
far  up  on  the  slope  behind  the  town,  with  a  wide 
outlook  upon  verdant  valley  and  brimming  river,  is 
the  sometime  dwelling-place  of  Lewis  Gaylord  Clark, 
where  he  penned  many  of  his  luminous  articles 
for  the  Knickerbocker  and  entertained  the  galaxy 
of  contributors  to  that  famous  periodical.  Nearer 
the  river  on  this  western  shore  and  overlooked  by 
Hook  Mountain  is  the  Carscallen  villa  of  Upper 
Nyack  —  a  spacious  and  handsome  mansion  en- 
vironed by  acres  of  lawn,  orchard  and  garden,  with 
fountains,  flowers  and  ornamental  shrubberies,  in 
which  Churchill  completed  "Richard  Carvel." 
1  See  "  Literary  Haunts  and  Homes." 

'9 


Literary  Rambles 

A  decade  of  miles  beyond  Irving'  s  grave  the  river 
flows  between  rugged  heights  that  fortress  the  en- 
trance to  the  sublime  defile  of  the  Highlands.  On 
our  right  rises  the  Anthony's  Nose  of  "Knicker- 
bocker's History"  ;  on  the  left  towers  the  Donder 
Berg,  haunt  of  the  "little  bulbous-bottomed  Dutch 
goblins  "  of  Irving'  s  legend  of  "  The  Storm  King," 
who  used  to  be  heard  here,  in  the  midst  of  tempests, 
"  giving  orders  in  Low  Dutch  for  the  piping  up  of 
a  fresh  gust  of  wind  or  the  rattling  off  of  another 
thunderclap."  Other  miles  of  strolling  through  a 
romantic  mountain  region  bring  us  to  a  resort  of 
Irving'  s,  "The  Grange,"  the  ancient  seat  of  the 
Philipses.  Here  Irving  often  came,  accompanied 
by  Paulding,  Kemble  and  other  friends  of  the 
"Salmagundi"  days.  The  hospitable  mansion  was 
burned  just  after  Irving'  s  death,  but  the  place  is  still 
the  possession  of  the  family  whom  he  visited,  and 
near  it  flows  the  picturesque  mountain  stream  he 
described  in  "  The  Angler  "  as  the  scene  of  his  own 
piscatorial  experience  with  Brevoort,  whose  elab- 
orate  outfit  is  pictured  hi  that  chapter  of  the  "  Sketch- 
£V  Book." 

**•  Poe  was  once  a  cadet  in  the  military  school  on 

•y       the  rock-bound  promontory  of  West  Point  in  the 
j^.    heart  of  the  Highlands,  and  upon  the  opposite  mar- 
J/-/#    gin  of  the  grand  river-pass  lies  historic  Constitution 
1+    /r  Island,  long  the  home  of  the  sisters  Warner.     The 

£**«**? 


/>  <J        *  *"  J 

" 


Where  Miss  Warner  Lived  and  Wrote 

picturesque  island  is  largely  composed  of  steep  and 
rude  masses  of  rock,  partially  clothed  by  native 
trees,  and  it  is  now  connected  with  the  eastern 
shore  by  reedy  marshlands.  To  this  seclusion 
Henry  W.  Warner,  author  of  "The  Liberties  of 
America,"  brought  his  gifted  daughters  many  years 
ago,  and  here  most  of  their  literary  works  were  pro- 
duced. The  dwelling  is  an  extended,  low,  old- 
fashioned,  rambling  edifice  of  varying  styles  and 
materials,  manifestly  erected  at  different  periods  to 
suit  the  requirements  of  the  occupants.  The  oldest 
portion,  with  low  ceiling  and  great  fireplace,  dates 
from  the  time  when  it  was  a  barrack  of  the  Fort 
Constitution  which  was  built  upon  the  lower  portion 
of  the  island  in  1776  to  defend  a  heavy  chain 
stretched  across  the  river  to  bar  the  advance  of  the 
British  fleet,  one  end  of  the  chain  being  anchored 
here,  near  the  place  of  the  present  boat-house.  A 
newer  portion  of  the  dwelling  is  fitted  for  a  conser- 
vatory, giant  oaks  tower  above  the  low  roofs  and 
embrace  with  their  branches  the  quaint  walls,  a 
broad  lawn  slopes  at  one  side,  the  river's  fullest  flow 
isolates  the  place  from  disturbing  influences  —  alto- 
gether it  is  an  ideal  abode  for  an  imaginative  writer. 
Here  the  famous  Susan  Warner,  who  never  wrote 
at  a  desk  in  an  especially  appointed  study,  penned 
much  of  her  fiction  in  the  shade  of  the  woods  or  in 
a  tent  set  up  in  a  pleasant  nook  near  the  house. 

21 


Literary  Rambles 

From  this  retreat  she  first  sent  forth  "The  Wide, 
Wide  World" — one  of  the  most  popular  novels 
ever  written  .by  an  American,  whose  instant  and 
enormous  success  made  her  famous  in  both  hemi- 
spheres; next  she  produced  the  scarcely  less  popular 
"Queechy,"  which  has  been  by  many  deemed 
her  best  book.  Among  the  several  others  which 
followed,  the  story  of  "The  Hills  of  Shatemuc" 
was  laid  upon  the  rugged  river-shore  among  scenes 
which  formed  a  part  of  her  daily  vision.  In  this 
insular  home,  too,  her  younger  sister,  Anna  B. 
Warner,  wrote  successful  books:  "Patience," 
"Dollars  and  Cents,"  "The  Fourth  Watch,"  and 
others  which  were  well  received  and  widely  read. 
The  island  is  still  the  home  of  the  younger  Miss 
Warner  who,  with  a  pair  of  trusty  colored  servitors, 
spends  much  of  each  year  in  this  romantic  retire- 
ment, where  she  has  recently  been  engaged  upon  a 
volume  of  memoirs  not  yet  published.  The  body 
of  the  more  famous  sister  lies  near  the  Cadets'  Mon- 
ument, in  the  military  cemetery  just  opposite  to  her 
beloved  island  home.  A  fitting  memorial,  placed 
by  her  sister  "in  trust  for  a  few  of  the  friends  that 
loved  her,"  marks  the  spot.  Its  inscription  names 
her  "  The  Author  of  « The  Wide,  Wide  World  '— 
born  i  st  July,  1819;  passed  gently  into  the  life 
that  knows  no  ending  ijth  March,  1885.  Auf 
Wiederseben." 

22 


"Culprit  Fay" — Bigelow — Kemble 

Susan  Warner  died  while  sojourning  in  a  house 
which  stands  at  the  entrance  to  "The  Squirrels," 
the  estate  of  John  Bigelow  at  Highland  Falls,  a  mile 
below  West  Point.  A  few  rods  distant  a  quaint 
and  delightful  old  wooden  mansion,  whose  most 
important  apartment  is  its  well-filled  library,  over- 
looks the  Hudson  from  a  steep  cliff  above  the  rail- 
way; and  here  Mr.  Bigelow  —  author,  editor,  and 
diplomat,  the  associate  and  biographer  of  Bryant  — 
is  spending  the  evening  of  life  among  his  books.  A 
neat  frame  cottage,  which  we  find  in  a  garden  just 
back  of  "The  Squirrels,"  was  for  ten  years  the 
parsonage  of  E.  P.  Roe,  and  hi  the  narrow  room 
behind  the  parlor  he  began  his  career  as  a  novelist 
by  writing  "Barriers  Burned  Away,"  and  other 
graphic  stories  which  reached  a  vast  audience. 

Commanding  the  Point,  the  island,  and  a  ribbon 
of  glistening  river  rise  the  crags  of  old  Cro'  Nest. 
Its  scant  and  shaggy  foliage  Joseph  Rodman  Drake 
peopled  with  the  dainty  company  of  elves  in  his 
exquisite  poem,  and  the  reach  of  water  that  sweeps 
below  he  made  the  scene  of  the  venturous  voyage 
of  "The  Culprit  Fay"  in  the  tiny  boatlet  of  pur- 
ple and  pearl..  Here  among  the  Highlands,  where 
forest-crowned  mountains  stand  with  their  feet  in  the 
flood,  we  see  the  sometime  "  Bachelor's  Elysium" 
of  Gouverneur  Kemble, — Irving' s  friend  "with  the 
heart  of  pure  gold," — who  was  "The  Patroon" 

23 


Literary  Rambles 

of  the  ancient  Cockloft  Hall  celebrated  in  "Salma- 
gundi." The  Kemble  mansion  stands  upon  the 
acclivity  which  Irving  could  "  not  mount  without 
blowing"  because  of  his  "villainous  propensity  to 
grow  round  and  robustious."  A  golf  course  has 
been  laid  out  in  the  grounds  ;  the  dignified  old 
dwelling  and  its  old-fashioned  furniture  are  essen- 
tially unchanged  since  the  time  Irving  sojourned 
there,  and  literators  like  Paulding,  Kennedy,  Willis, 
Lossing,  and  Morris  were  welcome  guests,  but  the 
beloved  "  Patroon  "  has  lain  for  twenty-five  years 
in  the  cemetery  of  Cold  Spring. 

Northward  towers  Mount  Taurus,  the  "  Bull 
Hill "  which  in  Irving' s  story  of  "  Dolph  Heyliger  " 
bellowed  back  the  storm  that  had  rolled  up  the  de- 
file of  the  Highlands  from  Donder  Berg.  From  a 
beautiful  terrace  below  the  impending  cliff  of  Taurus, 
the  former  home  of  George  P.  Morris  peeps  forth 
from  embowering  foliage  upon  the  noble  stream  and 
the  rock-ribbed  heights  of  the  western  shore.  The 
substantial  Doric  edifice  seems  little  changed  save 
by  neglect  ;  it  retains  its  imposing  portico  and  pil- 
lars and  we  miss  only  the  fountain  which  in  the 
poet's  day  danced  and  plashed  before  his  door. 
This  "  Undercliff"  was  long  the  gifted  song- 
writer's favorite  residence,  sometime  presided  over 
by  his  daughter  Ida,  the  "  nymph  of  mountain 
birth"  of  his  poem  "Where  Hudson's  Wave." 
24 


Homes  of  Morris  and  Willis 

The  little  north  room,  whose  window  affords  a 
superb  prospect  of  Newburgh  Bay,  was  his  study, 
and  here  many  of  his  lyrics  were  penned.  To  this 
house  his  final  summons  came,  and  in  a  decaying 
vault  of  the  old  village  cemetery,  with  his  ' <  fair  and 
gentle  Ida"  by  his  side,  the  writer  of  "Woodman, 
Spare  that  Tree ' '  sleeps  in  the  voiceless  mystery. 

Almost  directly  opposite  is  the  spot  which  Morris' s 
partner  and  literary  associate,  Willis,  found  a  pic- 
turesque wilderness  —  '«  a  mere  idle  wild" — and 
converted  into  the  delightful  home  which  his  grace- 
ful pen  made  familiar  to  the  world  of  readers  as 
"Idlewild."  Beneath  lofty  Highland  peaks  an 
elevated  plateau  extends  from  the  river  backward  to 
western  hills,  and  upon  this  terrace,  at  a  point  where 
it  rises  two  hundred  feet  above  the  water,  is  perched 
the  handsome  Gothic  cottage  which  was  the  last  home 
of  the  poet  of  "Unseen  Spirits."  Before  it  a 
spacious  lawn  declines  toward  the  river  ;  at  the  back 
is  the  great  craggy  ravine,  darkened  by  overhanging 
hemlocks,  at  the  bottom  of  which  foams  and  falls  the 
wild  mountain  rivulet  once  made  famous  by  Willis's 
letters  ;  and  about  the  place  on  every  hand  are  objects 
and  scenes  he  pleasantly  depicted  in  his  books. 

Shrubbery  of  abundant  foliage  and  tall  evergreens 
which  the  poet  planted  embosom  the  house  he  built 
—  an  ample,  two-storied,  multi-gabled  edifice  of 
painted  bricks,  with  dormers  in  the  steep  roofs,  bay- 

25 


Literary  Rambles 

windows  and  shaded  piazzas  on  front  and  side,  and 
with  vines  climbing  above  the  Gothic  entrance. 
Little  has  been  altered  since  Willis  was  carried  hence 
to  his  grave.  The  central  hall  and  stairs  have  been 
widened  somewhat,  but  we  may  still  see  at  the  right 
his  parlor,  whose  spacious  bay-window  commands 
the  verdant  slope  of  lawn,  the  shining  river,  the 
steeps  of  the  opposite  shore  and  the  more  distant 
tree-clad  mountains  as  described  in  his  "  Across- 
river  View ' ' ;  the  adjoining  room,  which  was  his 
library,  and,  above  it,  the  contracted  apartment 
where  he  wrote  and  where  the  space  not  occupied 
by  his  invalid  couch  was  filled  with  books,  journals, 
and  manuscripts. 

The  works  which  gained  Willis  his  early  reputa- 
tion—  including  the  once  vastly  popular  poems  upon 
scriptural  themes  —  were  produced  before  he  knew 
"  Idle  wild":  in  this  home  he  spent  the  last  two 
decades  of  his  busy  Ikerary  life,  here  he  suffered 
prolonged  torments  of  physical  disease  such  as  few 
literators  have  been  doomed  to  endure,  and  here, 
on  his  sixty-first  birthday,  his  spirit  passed  through 
the  muffled  gate  of  death. 

To  this  cultured  home  came  many  guests — 
Dana,  Whipple,  Fields,  Irving,  Kennedy,  Morris, 
Halleck,  De  Trobriand,  Bayard  Taylor,  and  others 
of  similar  renown.  The  incidents  of  Willis's  idyllic 
life  here,  his  garden  and  trees,  his  children  and 
26 


Idlewild  —  Roelands 

horses,  the  floods  in  the  glen,  the  peculiarities  of  his 
rural  neighbors,  the  varying  aspects  of  nature,  the 
charms  of  this  wondrous  landscape  about  his  home  — 
great  Storm  King  looming  in  the  south,  the  broad 
bend  of  river  in  front,  the  sail-dotted  expanse  of 
bay  in  the  north,  the  green  shores  and  valleys 
studded  with  villas  and  villages  —  were  with  deft 
touch  and  airy  grace  woven  into  the  papers  written 
here  for  his  Home  Journal  and  subsequently  pub- 
lished in  his  last  volumes,  ««  Out-Doors  at  Idle- 
wild,"  and  "The  Convalescent." 

Near  by  is  the  quiet  farmhouse  where  Willis  so- 
journed before  he  built  "Idlewild,"  and  to  which 
Bayard  Taylor  brought,  in  hopeless  search  for 
health,  the  adored  Mary  Agnew,  who,  a  few 
months  later,  left  his  arms  to  enter  the  shadowy 
realm. 

At  Cornwall,  too,  lived  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a 
century  that  earnest  and  effective  writer,  Edward 
P.  Roe.  His  dwelling,  a  gabled  frame  fabric  with 
a  wide  veranda  extending  along  its  front,  still  stands 
well  back  from  the  street  in  the  midst  of  park-like 
grounds  of  many  acres.  A  garden  of  flowers 
blooms  in  front;  picturesque  old  fruit  trees  and 
more  symmetrical  maples  and  evergreens  cluster 
about  the  mansion  and  are  disposed  through  the 
grounds,  from  whose  shades  we  enjoy  enchanting 
prospects  of  Storm  King,  Breakneck,  and  other 
27 


Literary  Rambles 

Highland  peaks,  and  of  the  river  gleaming  through 
the  foliage.  The  house,  yet  owned  by  the  nov- 
elist's family,  has  been  changed  since  his  death  only 
by  the  removal  of  his  furniture  and  personal  belong- 
ings. A  shelf-lined  room  adjoining  the  parlor  held 
his  library  of  four  thousand  volumes,  and  here  one 
or  two  of  his  tales  were  written,  but  his  later  books 
were  composed  in  what  he  called  his  ' "  sky -parlor. ' ' 
This  is  a  large,  airy  apartment  which  he  prepared 
for  a  literary  workshop,  high  up  among  the  tree- 
tops  in  one  of  the  gables.  Its  windows  look  across 
the  lawns  and  gardens  of  his  own  "Roelands,"  and 
command  a  curving  expanse  of  the  river  and  the 
rugged  forms  of  near-by  mountains.  With  this 
landscape  in  view  he  sat  here  at  his  escritoire  —  a 
walnut  union  of  drawers,  closets,  and  desk,  still 
preserved  by  his  family  —  and  penned  "Nature's 
Serial  Story,"  "  He  Fell  in  Love  with  His  Wife," 
and  a  dozen  or  more  of  similarly  popular  books. 
The  fruit  culture,  of  which  he  wrote  so  enthusias- 
tically, he  practised  on  the  acres  near  his  home, 
and,  for  successive  seasons,  when  his  strawberry 
beds  were  red  with  luscious  abundance,  the  Au- 
thors Club  came  here  by  invitation  to  feast  with 
him  upon  the  fruit.  A  little  way  back  from  the 
house  the  townspeople  have  laid  out  a  little  green 
which  they  have  named  Roe  Park,  and  here  they 
have  set,  in  a  massive  boulder,  a  suitably  inscribed 
28 


Roe— Mrs.  Barr — Headley 

bronze  tablet  in  commemoration  of  the  author  who 
was  to  them  a  neighbor  beloved,  and  who  now 
rests  in  death  among  them. 

The  novelist  of  "A  Bow  of  Orange  Ribbon" 
inhabits  a  home  high  on  the  green  mountain-side  in 
this  vicinage.  Hers  is  the  charmingly  irregular 
cottage-dwelling  locally  known  as  "Cherry  Croft." 
It  is  placed  in  pleasantly  shaded  grounds,  among  or- 
chards and  plats,  and,  with  its  steep  gables,  oc- 
tagonal tower,  vine-embowered  verandas  and  striped 
awnings,  is  a  pleasing  feature  of  an  altogether  pleas- 
ing landscape. 

Cases  of  costly  books,  a  tiled  fireplace,  handsome 
pictures  and  bric-a-brac  make  Mrs.  Barr's  library  a 
most  attractive  place  and  the  many  rooms  of  the 
house  are  furnished  in  a  fashion  which  indicates  the 
taste  and  culture  of  the  gifted  owner,  who  returns 
to  them  early  after  her  winters  in  New  York  or  the 
South  and  spends  most  of  the  year  amid  this  inspir- 
iting environment.  In  this  house  and  its  neigh- 
borhood she  has  composed  nearly  all  her  books, 
including  "Friend  Olivia,"  "A  Daughter  of  Fife," 
"Trinity  Bells"  and  other  widely  read  novels. 

From  the  western  shore  of  Newburgh  Bay 
"  Cedar  Lawn,"  erst  the  home  of  Joel  T.  Headley, 
overlooks  the  broad  bay  and  the  great  river-gorge 
southward  to  West  Point.  In  this  picturesque  re- 
tirement the  popular  author  resided  during  twenty- 
29 


Literary  Rambles 

two  years  and  here  wrote  "Napoleon  and  his 
Marshals,"  "The  Great  Rebellion,"  and  most  of 
his  famous  books  of  history  and  biography.  At 
Newburg,  too,  lives  the  novelist,  Adelaide  Skeel, 
among  the  scenes  of  her  clever  romance,  "  King 
Washington." 

Eastward  of  the  bay  lies  the  arena  of  some  of  the 
adventures  of  Enoch  Crosby,  the  Harvey  Birch  of 
Cooper's  "Spy,"  and  the  ancient  Fish  kill  church 
was  the  scene  of  his  imprisonment  after  the  mock 
trial.  Fishldll  is  the  birthplace  of  Mrs.  Townsend, 
the  poet  of  "Down  the  Bayou,"  "Distaff  and 
Spindle,"  etc.  Mount  Gulian,  nearer  the  river, 
is  the  ancestral  mansion  of  the  Verplancks  in  which 
the  Society  of  the  Cincinnati  was  organized.  Here 
that  polished  writer  Gulian  C.  Verplanck  —  some- 
time the  literary  partner  of  Bryant  and  Sands  — 
dwelt  for  many  years,  and  his  grave  is  made  in  the 
Fishkill  burial-ground,  a  thousand  leagues  away  from 
the  tomb  of  the  bright  being  whose  early  death  made 
him  for  sixty-five  years  a  widowed  mourner.  De- 
spite the  encroachments  of  brickyards,  Mount  Gulian 
retains  much  of  its  environment  of  broad  acres  and 
noble  trees  ;  the  venerable  mansion  preserves  all  its 
antique  peculiarities,  and  we  may  see  the  quaint 
rooms  unchanged  since  Verplanck  here  completed 
his  scholarly  edition  of  Shakespeare,  and  entertained 
guests  of  the  literary  quality  of  Irving,  Cooper, 

30 


"The  Spy" — Verplanck — Burroughs 

Paulding,  Bryant  and  Lord  Hough  ton.  At  Fishkill 
Landing  lived  and  lately  died  that  well-known 
writer  and  critic,  Clarence  Cook,  author  of '«  The 
House  Beautiful." 

The  low  plateau  that  projects  into  the  river  above 
Newburg  Bay  is  the  Duyvel's  Dans-Kamer  of 
"Knickerbocker's  History,"  where  Peter  Stuyve- 
sant's  crew  were  "most  horribly  frightened  by  a 
gang  of  merry,  roystering  devils,  frisking  on  the 
huge  flat  rock." 

Poughkeepsie  is  the  place  of  abode  of  the  talented 
and  versatile  Joel  Benton  —  poet,  essayist,  critic  — 
whose  contributions  to  periodical  literature  have, 
even  more  than  his  books,  made  him  familiar  to  the 
reading  public. 

High  above  the  river-verge  at  West  Park  abides 
that  worthy  successor  of  Thoreau,  John  Burroughs 
—  our  "  Prophet  of  Outdoordom."  "Riverby," 
the  name  of  his  beautiful  home,  suggested  the  title 
of  one  of  the  volumes  written  here  and  is  the  brand- 
mark  which  covers  certain  more  material  products 
of  the  author's  culture.  In  the  midst  of  his  acres 
he  chose  for  the  site  of  his  dwelling  a  spot  which 
commands  the  lordly  river  and  an  undulating  sweep 
of  the  green  hills  of  Dutchess,  and  here,  more  than 
twenty  years  ago,  he  planned  and  erected  the 
house,  the  story  of  whose  construction  he  has  so 
pleasantly  told  to  his  readers.  The  stones  and 

31 


Literary  Rambles 

woods  of  the  structure  are  mostly  native  to  his 
own  lands  and,  by  the  sympathetic  treatment  of 
these  materials,  a  pleasing  and  picturesque  edifice 
has  been  produced,  so  entirely  in  harmony  with  its 
surroundings  that  it  almost  seems  to  be  a  natural 
feature  of  the  landscape.  It  is  a  commodious  ga- 
bled fabric,  three  stories  in  height,  with  broad 
porches  and  balconies,  and  with  vines  mantling 
its  stone  walls. 

An  apartment  whose  windows  look  down  the 
Hudson  toward  the  distant  Highlands  was  for  years 
the  study  of  this  poet,  philosopher,  and  "literary 
naturalist,"  and  here  he  wrote  most  of  his  earlier 
books,  among  them  being  "Winter  Sunshine," 
"Birds  and  Sunshine,"  and  "Pepacton."  Fruit- 
ful orchards  and  the  vineyards  which  yield  the 
"Riverby"  grapes  fall  away  to  the  river-bank;  on 
the  brow  of  the  decline,  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
house,  stands  the  diminutive  square  structure,  cov- 
ered with  rough  bark  and  lined  with  books,  which 
for  sixteen  years  has  been  Burroughs' s  private  den 
and  workshop,  and  where  his  later  books  have  been 
penned,  embracing  "Fresh  Fields,"  "Signs  and 
Seasons,"  "Riverby,"  "A  Year  in  the  Fields," 
"Alaska,"  etc. 

The  adjoining  acres,  as  well  as  the  ruder  areas 
of  his  "Whitman  Land,"  have  been  the  scenes  of 
his  rural  employments,  and  have  yielded  a  profuse 

32 


Burroughs's  Whitman  Land — Paulding 

fruitage  not  quoted  in  the  market  price-lists.  Dur- 
ing his  operations  afield  the  brain  of  the  thinker  is 
not  idle,  and  the  sensitive  perceptions  of  the  natural- 
ist are  quick  to  note  the  significance  of  every  detail 
of  life  and  nature;  when  the  autumnal  frosts  suspend 
his  outdoor  occupations  and  stir  him  to  expression, 
he  takes  up  his  pen  and,  in  the  seclusion  of  the 
bark-clad  study,  clothes  in  vivid  and  sprightly  dic- 
tion the  thoughts,  fancies,  and  observations  of  the 
golden  summer  hours. 

A  more  recently  acquired  tract  of  savage,  rocky, 
and  swampy  land,  a  mile  west  of  the  railway,  is 
named  by  Burroughs  "Whitman  Land,"  because 
he  thinks  "in  many  ways  it  is  typical  of  the  poet," 
combining  ruggedness  and  grandeur  with  tenderness 
and  geniality.  This  tract  Burroughs  has  partially 
cleared  and,  in  a  sheltered  spot  at  the  border  of  the 
now  drained  and  cultivated  bog,  he  has  erected  a 
rustic  cabin  of  shaggy-barked  slabs,  with  a  great 
chimney  of  stone  and  a  shaded  porch  about  which 
the  birds  nest  and  sing.  Excepting  a  few  books 
and  pictures  the  furniture  of  his  "Slabsides"  is  of 
the  simplest  and,  like  the  cabin,  is  chiefly  the  work 
of  his  own  hands,  being  constructed  from  the  woods 
and  barks  that  grow  near  by.  Here  the  author 
usually  remains  from  April  to  autumn,  giving  some 
time  to  his  bachelor  housekeeping,  more  to  many 
visitors,  still  more  to  his  business  affairs,  and  having 

c  33 


Literary  Rambles 

yet  a  little  left  for  occasional  literary  tasks.  It  was 
here  that  his  study  of  Whitman  was  partly  written, 
and  some  of  his  later  essays. 

James  K.  Paulding,  the  successor  of  Brockden 
Brown  in  American  letters,  and  the  friend  and  early 
literary  associate  of  Irving,  passed  the  autumn  of  life 
in  a  charming  retreat  a  little  way  above  Hyde  Park. 
It  was  after  his  retirement  from  President  Van 
Buren' s  cabinet  that  he  came  to  "  Placedentia  "  and 
resumed,  with  almost  the  zest  of  the  period  of  his 
"Backwoodsman"  and  "Dutchman's  Fireside," 
the  beloved  literary  pursuits  which  his  political  ca- 
reer had  interrupted.  Paulding' s  mansion  is  pic- 
turesquely placed  upon  a  commanding  terrace  from 
which  the  ground  falls  away  in  gentle  undulations 
to  the  river,  two  or  three  furlongs  distant;  the  view 
which  Irving  so  much  admired  embraces  a  beautiful 
expanse  of  animating  landscape,  —  miles  of  the  sil- 
very river  with  its  many  moving  craft,  the  lessening 
perspectives  of  the  lovely  shores,  the  giant  mountain- 
forms  looming  to  the  horizon  in  the  hazy  distance. 
The  dwelling  has  been  something  enlarged  since 
Paulding' s  time,  but  we  may  still  see  the  room  in 
which  he  died,  and  the  place  of  the  library  where 
the  veteran  author  penned  several  of  his  twenty- 
seven  now  almost  forgotten  volumes,  including 
"The  Old  Continental"  and  "The  Puritan  and 
His  Daughter,"  the  latter  being  written  at  the  ad- 
vanced age  of  seventy- two. 

34 


Placedentia — The  Catskills 

As  we  journey  northward  we  see  the  great  pile 
of  the  Catskills  upholding  the  western  sky,  their 
towering  summits  tinted  with  purple  and  blue  or 
hooded  with  gray  mists.  At  their  feet  lies  the  vil- 
lage where  that  once  productive  and  popular  nov- 
elist, Ann  S.  Stephens,  sometime  dwelt;  among  the 
mountain  recesses  is  shown  the  scene  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle's  misadventure  with  the  goblin  and  the 
flagon,  as  narrated  in  Irving' s  immortal  legend,  and 
on  summer  afternoons,  when  the  sky  is  darkened 
with  clouds,  we  may  yet  sometimes  hear  the  ghostly 
crew  of  Hendrick  Hudson  at  their  game  of  ninepins. 
In  one  wild  glen  we  find  the  loftly  waterfall  which 
the  hero  of  Cooper's  "Pioneers"  thought  "the 
best  piece  of  work  he'd  met  with  in  the  woods," 
and  by  which  he  loved  to  sit  in  dreamy  meditation. 
From  the  sightly  point  where  "Leather-Stocking" 
used  to  stand  we  look  upon  the  matchless  panorama 
which  he  described  to  Edwards  ;  we  see  with  him 
"seventy  miles  of  the  river  looking  like  a  curled 
shaving  under  our  feet,"  and,  across  the  shimmer- 
ing green  of  the  vast  landscape,  the  rugged  High- 
lands, the  misty  peaks  of  the  Taghconics,  and  the 
fainter  outlines  of  the  far  Hampshire  hills. 

Farther  up  the  valley,  and  but  a  few  miles  dis- 
tant from  the  river-bank  we  find,  amid  pleasant  pas- 
toral scenes,  the  estate  of  Lindenwald,  for  many 
happy  years  the  home  of  Martin  Van  Buren,  but 
interesting  to  us  chiefly  on  account  of  its  connection 

35 


Literary  Rambles 

with  Irving  and  his  work.  That  author  was  for  a 
time  associated  with  Van  Buren  at  the  American 
Legation  in  London,  they  were  companions  in  a 
visit  to  Newstead  and  other  literary  shrines  of  Eng- 
land, and  when  Van  Buren  became  President  he 
tendered  to  Irving  a  cabinet  portfolio  which  the 
latter  declined. 

In  Irving' s  early  manhood  Linden wald  was  the 
country-seat  of  Judge  Van  Ness  —  the  author  of 
"Aristides" — to  whose  ancestors  Knickerbocker 
avers  we  are  indebted  for  the  invention  of  buck- 
wheat cakes.  The  judge,  who  had  been  Burr's 
second  in  the  fateful  duel  with  Hamilton,  was  an 
attached  friend  of  Irving,  and  when  he  suffered  the 
sorrow  of  his  life  in  the  death  of  his  fair  fiance, 
Matilda  Hoffman,  he  was  invited  to  retire  for  a 
time  to  this  spot,  and  during  the  months  of  his 
sojourn  he  sought  forgetfulness  of  his  grief  in  ab- 
sorbing literary  occupation.  Here  he  revised  and 
completed  the  peerless  "History  of  New  York,"  — 
in  which  he  mentions  his  host's  family, —  working 
upon  it  for  some  hours  of  each  day  in  the  same 
chamber  where  Van  Buren  afterward  died.  In 
Irving' s  time  the  mansion  was  a  plain  square  brick 
edifice  shaded  by  pines  and  lindens ;  it  was  en- 
larged and  beautified  by  Van  Buren,  who  purchased 
it  from  his  law-preceptor,  Van  Ness;  among  the 
notable  additions  being  a  spacious  library  and  an 
36 


Irving  and  the  Real  Ichabod  Crane 

observatory  which  yet  towers  above  the  roofs  and 
overlooks  an  extensive  and  beautiful  view.  Of  this 
delightful  residence  Irving' s  niece  later  became  mis- 
tress. It  is  now  owned  by  the  farmer  who  tills  the 
environing  acres,  and  is  essentially  unchanged  since 
the  ex- President's  death;  much  of  his  furniture  re- 
mains in  the  commodious  rooms,  and  the  scores  of 
magnificent  pines  that  cluster  upon  the  lawn  were 
here  when  Irving  knew  the  place. 

It  was  here  that  Irving  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Jesse  Merwin,  a  young  schoolmaster  "boarding 
round"  in  the  neighborhood,  whom  he  afterward 
burlesqued  in  Ichabod  Crane.  A  liking  grew  up 
between  the  author  and  the  teacher,  and  their  friend- 
ship and  correspondence  continued  until  death. 
After  Irving' s  literary  task  for  the  day  was  done  he 
would  go  to  the  schoolhouse  and  wait  until  his 
friend  had  dismissed  the  pupils,  then  the  two  would 
take  long  walks  through  the  country-side  —  walks 
of  which  the  pedagogue  ever  retained  delightful 
memories.  Once  they  went  fishing  together  on  a 
lakelet  not  far  distant,  where  they  compensated 
their  ill-success  in  piscicapture  by  plundering  the 
canoe  of  a  more  skilful  angler,  the  "vagabond  ad- 
miral of  the  lake,"  John  Moore.  It  was  the 
qualities  and  conduct  of  this  Moore  which  suggested 
to  Irving  the  skulking  and  vagrant  cosmopolite 
whom  he  named  Dirk  Schuiler  in  "Knickerbocker's 

37 


Literary  Rambles 

History" — a  character  which  he  introduced  into 
that  chronicle  during  his  residence  here  among  the 
haunts  of  the  vagabond  original. 

Near  Lindenwald  we  find  the  place  of  the  school, 
but  the  old  log  building  in  which  the  real  Ichabod 
Crane  urged  the  tough,  broad-bcttomed  Dutch 
boys  "along  the  flowery  path  of  knowledge"  in 
Irving' s  day,  has  long  disappeared.  For  half  a 
century  the  master  has  slept  beneath  the  daisies; 
but  on  the  hill  behind  his  school  stands  the  sub- 
stantial farmhouse  where  he  lived  and  died,  where 
he  proudly  named  a  favorite  child  after  his  illustrious 
friend  and  companion  of  the  early  time,  and  where 
now  dwells  his  younger  son,  an  esteemed  member 
of  the  community.  Merwin's  sepulchre  is  near 
that  of  Van  Buren  in  the  cemetery  of  the  historic 
Dutch  church  at  near-by  Kinderhook,  and  is  one 
of  the  sights  of  the  place.  It  is  marked  by  a  square 
upright  monument  of  marble,  whose  simple  inscrip- 
tion shows  that  he  died  at  the  age  of  sixty-eight, 
and  that,  in  the  incessant  procession  to  the  grave, 
he  preceded  by  seven  years  the  great  writer  who 
had  made  all  the  world  laugh  at  his  whimsical 
caricature  as  the  pedagogue  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 


A  NEW  JERSEY  RAMBLE: 

LITERARY  LANDMARKS 

OF  NEWARK,  ETC. 

Cooper  and  Ir-ving  Scenes— Hoboken  — Sands— Bryant— Halleck  — 
Newark -The  Gilders -Dr.  Coles -Talleyrand -Chateau- 
briand—Shelley1  s  Grandfather -Stephen  Crane  —  Stedman 
—  Mrs.  Dodge— Marion  Harland—Dr.  Ward  — Amanda 
M.  Douglas— Mrs.  Kinney  —  Noah  Brooks  —  Thomas  Dunn 
English  — Thomas  Moore— Cockloft  Hall— Ray  Palmer  — 
Henry  William  Herbert,  etc. 

'  I  *HE  water-ways  that  girt  our  "mast  hemmed 
•*•  Manhattan"  have  long  been  famed  in  song 
and  story,  and  all  the  outlying  district  that  environs 
the  metropolis  holds,  for  the  literary  prowler,  objects 
and  places  of  precious  pilgrimage  and  regard.  Some 
of  these  have  earlier  attracted  our  steps  and  have 
been  sketched  in  previous  books  of  this  series,  but 
more  remain  to  reward  our  reverent  quest.  The 
noble  harbor — fitting  portal  to  a  commerical  capital — 
encircles  with  its  tides  the  island  which  has  been  the 
abode  of  Thoreau  and  of  our  American  Elia,  George 
William  Curtis,  and  is  still  the  home  of  that  gifted 
poet  and  critic,  William  Winter.  James  Fenimore 
Cooper  here  laid  a  scene  of  his  "Water  Witch"; 
the  adjacent  water  was  the  theater  of  some  of  the 
exploits  of  that  marvelous  craft  and  upon  the  near-by 
New  Jersey  coast  we  may  find  the  site  of  Van 
Beverout's  villa  "  Lust  in  Rust,"  with  its  superb  sea- 

39 


Literary  Rambles 

view,  the  place  of  "La  Belle  Barberie's"  pavilion, 
and  contiguous  scenes  of  the  operations  of  the  smug- 
glers in  Cooper's  tale. 

Other  Jersey  shrines  may  well  engage  us.  The 
river  ferry-boats  convey  us  quickly  from  the  city's 
shore  of  ships  to  the  ancient  Pavonia  of  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker's  wonderful  "  History  "  and  to  Com- 
munipaw, —  scene  of  the  victory  of  the  Goede 
Vrouw  heroes  over  the  squaws  and  papooses,  in 
that  veracious  chronicle, — the  place  which  "  was  the 
egg  whence  was  hatched  the  mighty  City  of  New 
York."  Malodorous  vapors  from  factories  and  refi- 
neries have  replaced  the  clouds  from  the  burghers' 
pipes  which  overhung  the  Communipaw  of  Knicker- 
bocker's time,  and  that  renowned  spot  has  since  been 
made  the  scene  of  an  irreverent  "Legend"  by 
George  Arnold. 

Above  lies  historic  Hoboken — with  its  sometime 
"  Elysian  Fields" — where  yet  is  indicated  the  old 
dwelling  near  the  river  where  lived  and  died  the 
poet  of  "Yamoyden"  and  author  of  many  now 
little  read  works,  Robert  C.  Sands.  The  course  of 
domiciliary  decline  has  thus  far  spared  the  ample 
rooms,  with  their  high  ceilings  and  quaint  mantels, 
and  we  may  yet  see  the  apartment  in  which  the 
Sketch  Club — that  association  of  literary  men  and 
artists  which  was  the  parent  of  the  Century  Club — 
held  many  of  its  meetings,  and  the  study  where 
40 


Haunts  of  Bryant,  Verplanck,  Sands 

Sands,  Bryant,  and  Verplanck  collaborated  upon 
"The  Talisman,"  their  sessions  being  sometimes 
so  noisily  merry  that  passers-by  would  pause  to 
listen.  In  this  room,  too,  only  three  days  after  the 
publication  of  his  poem,  "The  Dead  of  Thirty- 
two"  (Scott,  Cuvier,  Goethe,  Crabbe,  Bentham, 
etc.),  Sands  was  himself  stricken  while  preparing  an 
article  for  the  first  number  of  the  Knickerbocker 
Magazine ;  he  had  written  the  line, 

"  Oh,  deem  not  my  spirit  among  you  abides," 

when  the  bolt  fell,  his  pencil  traced  an  irregular 
mark  across  the  page,  and  then  fell  from  his  nerve- 
less grasp  forever.  The  little  cottage  by  the  Sands 
mansion,  which  Bryant  occupied  during  the  preva- 
lence of  the  cholera  in  New  York  and  for  some 
years  afterward,  was  long  ago  swept  away  by  the 
current  of  commerce,  and  with  it  have  disappeared 
the  beauties  of  foliage-fringed  shore,  sunny  mead, 
and  rocky  height,  which  were  here  celebrated  in 
the  musical  verse  of  Halleck  and  Sands,  and  the  re- 
fined prose  of  Verplanck  and  Irving.  Not  far  from 
the  river  we  see  the  pleasant  little  park  described 
by  Arthur  Fawcett,  where,  in  his  "Daughter  of 
Silence,"  Brenda  and  Guy  Arbuthnot  first  spoke. 

Out  of  the  great  salt  meadows  behind  the  near 
Bergen  ridge  rises  the  mound  of  Snake  Hill  —  occu- 
pied now  by  various  charitable  and  punitive  institu- 

4' 


Literary  Rambles 

tions  —  which,  according  to  Knickerbocker,  was 
formed  by  the  sepulture  of  the  savages  of  Communi- 
paw,  who,  being  accosted  by  the  crew  of  the  Goede 
Vrouw,  were  so  terrified  by  the  "  uncouth  sound  of 
the  Low  Dutch  language  that  they  one  and  all  took 
to  their  heels,  scampered  over  the  Bergen  hills,  and 
did  not  stop  until  they  had  buried  themselves,  head 
and  ears,  in  the  marshes  on  the  other  side,  where 
they  all  miserably  perished."  Across  these  meadows 
extends  the  Newark  causeway  of  "Salmagundi," 
along  which  Irving  and  his  coterie  of  "Nine 
Worthies ' '  made  their  frequent  stage-journeys  to 
the  scene  of  their  frolics  at  Cockloft  Hall  —  the 
causeway  which  always  reminded  Paulding  of 
Christopher  Cockloft's  stories,  because  "one  sees 
the  end  at  the  distance  of  several  miles." 

These  "several  miles"  bring  us  to  the  commer- 
cial center  of  the  beautiful  city  of  Newark,  at  which 
point  we  find  the  offices  of  the  Daily  Advertiser 
—  the  newspaper  of  which  Noah  Brooks  long  was 
editor,  and  upon  whose  staff  the  Gilders  and  Stephen 
Crane  were  sometime  employed.  Upon  the  oppo- 
site corner  of  Broad  and  Market  Streets  Richard 
Watson  Gilder  established  and  edited  the  now  de- 
funct Morning  Register,  which  was  subsequently 
edited  by  Dr.  English.  To  its  columns  all  the 
Gilder  family  contributed;  Miss  Jeanette  —  now 
"The  Lounger"  of  The  Critic  —  wrote  for  it, 
42 


Newark  Journals — Dr.  Coles 

at  an  early  age,  her  first  newspaper  article,  an  essay 
upon  salt,  for  which,  as  she  says,  "  the  encyclopedia 
supplied  most  of  the  facts."  A  few  rods  down 
Market  Street  from  this  busy  corner  is  published 
a  successor  to  Gilder's  Register,  The  Evening 
News,  to  which  Dr.  English  is  a  contributor.  Op- 
posite to  the  Evening  News  office  we  find,  at 
No.  222,  a  venerable,  three-storied,  brick-and- 
stone  building,  now  surrendered  to  business,  which 
was  long  the  home  of  the  poet  and  scholar  —  friend 
of  Whittier  and  Holmes  —  Dr.  Abraham  Coles. 
Here,  amid  the  din  of  a  noisy  thoroughfare,  and  in 
the  precarious  leisure  hours  afforded  by  his  high 
priesthood  of  the  art  of  healing,  he  made  most  of  his 
many  rhythmic  renderings  of  the  solemn  litany, 
"Dies  Iras,"  some  of  which  are  matchless  in  spirit 
and  manner,  and  preserve  the  sonorous  quality  of 
the  original  Latin  in  a  degree  unequalled  by  the 
version  of  any  other  translator;  here,  too,  he  made 
his  beautiful  translations  of  the  "Stabat  Mater"  and 
many  mediaeval  lyrics,  wrote  "The  Microcosm," 
—  a  Lucretius-like  poem  upon  the  structure  and 
functions  of  the  human  body, — "The  Evangel," 
"Light  of  the  World,"  and  numerous  other  poems. 
Just  south  of  the  corner  of  Broad  and  Market 
Streets  is  the  site  of  the  quaint  square  church  where 
George  Whitefield  once  preached  during  the  pas- 
torate of  Aaron  Burr  —  the  parent  and  virtual  first 

43 


Literary  Rambles 

president  of  Princeton  College  —  and  where  that 
now  venerated  institution  was  ultimately  organized, 
and  its  first  eight  commencements  held.  A  sub- 
stantial and  elegant  stone  mansion,  long  ago  dis- 
placed by  business  structures,  which  stood  discreetly 
back  from  the  sidewalk  two  or  three  rods  below  the 
next  (William)  street,  was  the  home  of  President 
Burr,  to  which,  after  a  courtship  of  three  days,  he 
brought  as  his  wife  the  lovely  and  amiable  daughter 
of  the  author  of  "Edwards  On  The  Will,"  and 
here  was  born  the  Aaron  Burr  who  fills  so  large  a 
place  in  the  pages  of  American  history. 

Almost  directly  opposite  to  Burr's  birthplace, 
and  upon  the  site  now  occupied  by  the  Kremlin 
Building,  stood  the  Ailing  homestead, —  a  commo- 
dious, massive-timbered,  gambrel-roofed,  low-ceiled 
edifice  of  wood,  with  a  chair  factory  in  one  end  and 
a  railed  gallery  between  its  large  chimneys, —  which 
was  long  a  landmark  in  its  neighborhood,  but  which 
interests  us  mainly  by  its  associations  with  some  for- 
eign literators  who  sometime  resided  beneath  its 
ancient  roof.  Among  these  was  Talleyrand  — 
Charles  Maurice,  Prince  de  Talleyrand- Perigord, 
Bishop  of  Autun — who  dwelt  here  during  the  greater 
part  of  his  term  of  exile  in  America;  here  he  gave 
lessons  in  the  French  language,  and  sometimes 
worked  at  chair-making,  and  here  were  recorded 
the  observations  upon  which  he  founded  his  disser- 

44 


Talleyrand — Chateaubriand — Shelley 

tation,  "Une  Memoire  sur  les  Relations  Commer- 
ciales  des  Etats  Unis,"  which  he  afterward  published 
in  France.  In  this  old  house,  too,  dwelt  for  a  time 
that  transcendent  author,  the  Viscount  de  Chateau- 
briand, and  here,  it  is  said,  he  planned  one  of  his 
most  impressive  works,  "  Genie  du  Christianisme," 
which  he  wrote  in  a  London  attic,  and  published 
in  Paris.  It  has  been  thought  that  Edgar  Allan  Poe 
found  in  a  chapter  of  this  book  the  conceptions  which 
he  clothed  in  the  musical  rhyme  of  "The  Bells." 
In  this  older  part  of  the  city  sometime  lived 
Bysshe  Shelley,  who  afterward  removed  to  Eng- 
land to  become  Sir  Bysshe  of  Goring  Castle,  Sussex, 
and  grandfather  of  the  ««  impassioned  Ariel  of  Eng- 
lish verse."  Whether  he  was  born  in  the  then 
staid  little  town  on  the  Passaic  or  was  early  brought 
hither  from  Guildford,  Connecticut,  where  his 
parents  inhabited  the  place  afterward  occupied  by 
the  poet  Halleck,  is  a  matter  of  incertitude ;  in 
Newark  he  was  reared  and  grew  to  be  the  tall, 
handsome,  clear- witted,  vigorous-willed  man,  stately 
of  bearing,  charming  of  address  and  "reckless  of 
the  proprieties,"  who  was  destined  to  elsewhere 
win  his  way  to  a  baronetcy  and  a  colossal  fortune. 
Here  he  made  his  first  essay  in  life  as  a  medical 
charlatan,  with  so  little  success  that  the  effort  was 
not  long  continued,  and  here,  probably,  he  was 
married  to  and  —  as  his  poet-grandson  says  — 

45 


Literary  Rambles 

"behaved  badly"  toward  the  first  of  his  procession 
of  wives,  the  young  widow  of  a  miller. 

Among  the  quieter  thoroughfares,  a  block  or  two 
out  of  Broad,  lies  Mulberry  Place,  a  short  street  of 
rather  cheap  and  unpretentious  dwellings,  where  we 
find  the  plain,  three-storied  brick  house,  now  num- 
bered fourteen,  in  which  Stephen  Crane  first  saw  the 
light  and  where  some  years  of  his  childhood  were 
spent.  Less  than  three  decades  after  his  birth  in 
this  humble  home,  the  author  of  "The  Red  Badge 
of  Courage,"  to  whom  friendly  critics  were  looking 
for  the  production  of  the  great  American  novel, 
was  brought  from  a  foreign  land  for  burial  a  few 
miles  distant  from  this  birthplace.  A  little  way 
beyond  Mulberry  Place,  in  a  tranquil  neighbor- 
hood on  shady  Brunswick  Street,  is  the  dwelling 
where  lived  for  several  years  the  poet  of  "The 
Celestial  Passion ' '  —  now  the  editor  of  The 
Century  —  and  other  members  of  his  talented 
family.  The  house  is  numbered  seventy-seven,  a 
modest  and  pleasant  frame  fabric  with  a  French 
roof,  and  is  unaltered  since  the  time  of  the  Gilders' 
occupancy.  Here,  in  addition  to  much  routine 
editorial  work,  the  poet  produced  some  of  that  ex- 
quisite verse  for  which  he  is  known  and  loved, 
and  here  began  Miss  Gilder's  "Journalistic  Ex- 
periences" of  which  she  has  written  with  such 
spirit. 

The  poet-banker,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman, 
46 


Stephen  Crane — Gilder — Stedman 

dwelt  a  furlong  or  so  from  the  Gilders.  His  home 
was  erected  in  Stratford  Place,  a  beautifully  shaded 
little  street  on  the  eastern  slope  of  the  eminence 
upon  which  the  more  elevated  portion  of  the  city  is 
set.  The  dwelling  is  a  picturesque  frame  cottage 
of  moderate  size,  with  pretty  porches  and  bay 
windows,  and  has  recently  been  removed  to  Avon 
Avenue, —  where  it  is  numbered  fifty-three, —  a  few 
rods  from  its  original  site.  Upon  that  site  it  was 
a  fit  home  for  a  poet,  being  garlanded  by  roses  and 
climbing  vines  and  placed  in  the  midst  of  a  garden 
where  shrubbery  and  embowering  trees  grew  about 
it  on  every  side.  In  this  home,  mostly  in  the 
nights  between  wearying  business  days,  Stedman 
wrote  many  of  his  charming  poems  and  essays  and 
a  part  of  his  appreciative  and  critical  volume  on 
"The  Victorian  Poets";  to  him  here  came  as 
visitors  Dr.  Coles,  Mary  Mapes  Dodge,  the  Gilders, 
Bayard  Taylor,  Richard  Henry  Stoddard  and  others 
of  like  tastes  or  attainments. 

The  home  of  the  historian  Foster  adjoined  Sted- 
man's  on  the  south,  and  a  mile  without  the  city 
limits  in  this  direction  is  the  fine  old  mansion  of 
the  late  Professor  Mapes,  where  his  gifted  daughter, 
Mary  Mapes  Dodge,  spent  much  of  her  girlhood 
and  several  years  of  her  womanhood.  While  resi- 
dent here  she  commenced  her  editorial  career  on 
the  Hearth  and  Home  and  wrote  three  or  four  books, 
including  her  best  known  volume,  * '  Hans  Brinker. ' ' 

47 


Literary  Rambles 

Northward,  along  the  slope  which  once  held  the 
home  of  Stedman,  we  find  in  High  Street,  just  back 
of  the  court  house,  a  double  frame  dwelling  of 
ample  proportions  where  for  six  years  resided  that 
popular  writer,  Marion  Harland  (Mrs.  Terhune), 
and  where  she  produced  "My  Little  Love," 
"Common  Sense  in  the  Household,"  etc. 

The  course  of  a  stroll  northward  along  Broad 
Street  from  the  business  center  of  the  city  will  bring 
us  to  some  of  the  scenes  and  shrines  we  seek.  The 
Park  House,  which  overlooks  Military  Park  from 
its  eastern  border,  was  for  years  the  abode  of  Eliza- 
beth Clementine  Kinney,  the  intimate  friend  of  the 
Brownings,  with  whom  she  spent  much  tune  in 
Florence.  She  was  the  author  of  such  works  as 
"Felicita,"  "The  Italian  Beggar  Boy"  and  "Bi- 
anca  Capello,"  and  here  in  the  Park  House  she 
composed  some  of  her  poems  and  many  journalistic 
articles.  Her  writings  deserved  the  generous  recog- 
nition they  received,  but  her  best  contribution  to 
literature  was,  undoubtedly,  her  son,  the  poet  Sted- 
man. In  this  hostelry  "Frank  Forester"  some- 
time resided  and  wrote  once  familiar  books  on  sports. 

In    the    dwelling    adjoining    the     Park     House 

Marion  Harland  produced  "At  Last,"  and  "True 

as  Steel,"   and  six   or   seven  of  her  novels    were 

written  in  the  house  No.  4  West  Park  Street,  on 

48 


Marion  Harland — Thomas  D.  English 

the  opposite  side  of  the  park.  Towering  above  a 
corner  of  Washington  Park,  at  Lombardy  Street,  is 
the  mammoth  Aldine  apartment  house  where  Noah 
Brooks  once  lived.  His  were  pleasant  apartments 
upon  the  fourth  floor,  which  he  occupied  during 
several  years  of  his  editorial  connection  with  the 
Advertiser,  and  in  which  he  produced  his  "Life 
of  Lincoln"  in  the  " Heroes  of  the  Nation" 
series,  "Boy  Settlers,"  and  a  volume  of  his  con- 
tinuation of  Bryant's  "History  of  the  United 
States."  Ward's  colossal  bronze  of  Coles,  the 
unequaled  translator  of  "  Dies  Iras,"  stands  at  an- 
other corner  of  this  green  and  shady  park. 

A  little  way  out  of  Broad  in  State  Street  —  a 
sober,  democratic  thoroughfare  north  of  the  Lacka- 
wanna  railway  —  stands  a  substantial  brick  house  of 
modest  exterior,  within  whose  hospitable  doors  we 
are  greeted  by  that  veteran  poet,  dramatist,  nov- 
elist, essayist,  editor,  critic,  Dr.  Thomas  Dunn 
English.  The  rooms  abound  with  interesting  and 
valuable  curios  and  with  mementos  of  the  friends 
and  events  of  his  long  literary  life,  but  it  is  the 
back  parlor  —  his  library  and  lounge  —  which  at- 
tracts and  holds  us.  Its  walls  are  mostly  lined  with 
well-used  books ;  wherever  space  permits  pictures 
are  hung,  some  of  them  painted  by  the  doctor's 
own  hand;  bits  of  bric-a-brac  and  tasteful  pieces  of 
pottery  are  disposed  here  and  there,  smokers'  arti- 
D  49 


Literary  Rambles 

cles  mingle  with  the  books  upon  the  writing-table, 
an  orderly  disorder  of  journals  and  papers  over- 
spreads tables  and  chairs,  and  beside  the  fireplace 
sits,  with  long-stemmed  pipe  in  mouth,  the  genius 
of  the  place — one  of  the  most  picturesque  figures 
in  our  literature.  His  spare,  lithe  form  is  some- 
what bent,  and  the  hair  that  crowns  his  finely 
formed  head  is  touched  with  gray,  but  his  face  — 
mustached  like  a  pirate's  —  is  bright  and  expres- 
sive, the  gleam  in  his  dark  eyes  gives  little  hint  of 
the  malady  that  is  dimming  them  to  blindness,  his 
mien  is  alert  and  animated,  his  thought  is  of  the 
present  not  of  the  past,  and  yet  it  is  nearly  sixty 
years  since  he  wrote  "Ben  Bolt,"  the  lyric  which 
took  the  world  by  storm.  Nor  is  there  any  sign  of 
mental  senility  in  the  virile  verse,  or  the  crisp  and 
vigorous  prose  he  produces,  for  he  is  still  engaged 
in  literary  work.  From  the  depths  of  his  easy- 
chair  he  dictates  to  his  daughter  poems,  editorials, 
and  magazine  articles  which  are  widely  read.  Some 
of  the  latter  are  reminiscential  in  character  and  may, 
later,  be  collected  in  a  volume. 

All  of  Dr.  English's  numerous  published  books 
were  written  before  he  came  to  this  residence;  the 
greater  part  of  them  were  issued  pseudonymously 
and  have  never  been  acknowledged  by  their  author. 
Among  the  few  novels  he  cares  to  recognize  are 
"Ambrose  Fecit"  and  "Walter  Woolfe" — 

50 


Dr.  English's  Home  and  Works 

written  before  most  of  us  were  born ;  a  later  suc- 
cessful tale,  "Jacob  Schuylers  Millions,"  was 
composed  in  an  old  house  which  we  lately  found 
standing  by  the  corner  of  Sussex  Avenue  and  Third 
Street,  not  far  from  the  spot  where  "Frank  For- 
ester" once  fought  a  duel  with  a  Newark  lawyer. 
More  recently  a  collection  of  Dr.  English's  "  Fairy 
Stories  and  Wonder  Tales ' '  has  been  made  by  his 
daughter. 

Of  his  many  dramas,  composed  mostly  for  Burton 
and  Foster,  only  "The  Mormons,"  which  was 
written  in  three  days,  is  now  extant.  Of  the  thou- 
sand and  more  poems  that  have  been  published  under 
his  own  name  some  hundreds  are  preserved  in  the 
volumes  "American  Ballads,"  "  Battle  Lyrics,"  and 
"Select  Poems,"  and,  among  them  all,  few  can  be 
found  which,  in  the  esteem  of  their  writer,  are  not 
superior  in  literary  merit  to  the  popular  song  with 
which  his  name  is  indissolubly  associated.  Such 
poems  as  "The  Charge  by  the  Ford,"  "Paling- 
enesia,"  "The  Battle  of  Monmouth,"  "The  Sack 
ofDeerfield,"  "Ballad  of  the  Colors,"  "Rafting 
on  Guyandotte"  (a  vivid  descriptive  versification), 
or  any  one  of  a  hundred  others  more  worthily  repre- 
sent his  style  and  uphold  his  fame  than  does  the 
perennial  "Ben  Bolt."  Of  the  latter  the  doctor 
usually  speaks  as  one  of  his  "youthful  indiscre- 
tions," and  it  is  said  to  be  sometimes  perilous  to 

5' 


Literary  Rambles 

mention  it  in  his  presence ;  but  we  are  favored  with 
a  whimsical  account  from  his  own  lips  of  its 
hasty  and  fragmentary  composition  as  a  gift  of 
"copy"  for  his  friend  Willis,  of  its  being  sent 
with  the  recommendation  that  it  should  be  burned, 
of  its  unexpected  and  phenomenal  success.  "It 
became  the  rage ;  a  race-horse  was  named  for  it, 
a  ship  and  steamboat  took  their  name  from  it." 
The  ship  was  wrecked,  the  steamboat  exploded,  the 
horse  ruined  all  who  risked  their  money  upon 
him,  but  the  ballad  remains  to  be  "  the  plague"  of 
its  author's  life.  He  is  everywhere  pointed  out  as 
"the  man  who  wrote  'Ben  Bolt,'"  bands  play 
the  air  when  he  appears  at  any  public  function,  ad- 
mirers in  all  quarters  of  the  globe  pester  him  with 
demands  for  autograph  copies.  Occasionally  these 
annoyances  abate  somewhat,  but  before  the  doctor 
dares  to  hope  the  song  is  being  forgotten  something 
occurs  —  like  its  introduction  by  Cable  in  "Dr. 
Sevier"  or  by  Du  Maurier  in  "Trilby" — to  re- 
vive and  extend  its  vogue. 

The  vast  aggregate  of  his  literary  productions 
suggests  such  unwonted  celerity  of  composition  that 
we  are  not  surprised  when  told  that  many  of  his 
poems  of  a  hundred  lines  were  written  in  a  single 
evening  and  that  "Kallimais,"  a  weird  tale  told  in 
above  five  hundred  lines  of  blank  verse,  was  com- 
posed in  five  hours.  The  doctor  has  known,  more 

52 


"Ben  Bolt"— Thomas  Moore 

or  less  intimately,  many  of  the  best  American  writers 
of  the  past  half  century,  and  to  sit  with  him  here 
among  his  books  and  listen  to  his  brilliant  discourse 
concerning  our  favorite  authors,  his  earnest  and 
enthusiastic  appreciations  of  their  best  works,  his 
vivid  narratives  of  events  in  their  lives,  of  which  the 
biographers  seem  never  to  have  heard,  is  for  us  an 
unparalleled  pleasure.  His  memory  is  a  veritable 
treasure-house,  and  the  "Reminiscences"  he  hopes 
—  barring  the  interruption  of  death,  which  may 
Heaven  forefend  —  to  give  to  the  world  will  be  of 
transcendent  interest  and  value. 

Two  blocks  beyond,  by  the  junction  of  Belleville 
Avenue  with  Broad  Street,  we  find  a  feed-store  and 
the  adjacent  sidewalk  covering  now  the  site  of  the 
venerable  mansion  where  the  poet  of  "  Lalla  Rookh ' ' 
was  once  a  guest.  It  was  a  substantial,  low-built, 
square  structure  of  stuccoed  stone,  with  a  broad 
front  looking  southward  along  the  highway,  and 
was  occupied  by  the  cultured  Ogden  family  to 
whom,  it  is  said,  Moore  brought  letters  of  introduc- 
tion from  their  Tory  relatives.  The  poet  was  then 
upon  his  return  from  "the  vex't  Bermoothes," 
having  assigned  to  a  deputy  the  duties  of  his  office 
there  as  Registrar  of  the  Admiralty.  Letters  which 
he  wrote  from  "the  States"  at  this  time  stigmatized 
Americans  as  barbarous,  sordid,  corrupt,  barren  in 
intellect,  taste,  "and  all  in  which  the  heart  is  con- 

53 


Literary  Rambles 

cerned";  yet  he  graciously  excepted  from  his 
denunciations  the  women,  who,  "as  flowers,  here 
waste  their  sweetness  most  deplorably,"  and  it  has 
been  said  that  one  of  his  love-lyrics, 

"  Come  o'er  the  sea,  Maiden,  with  me," 

was  addressed  to  a  fair  inmate  of  this  old  Ogden 
house.  While  here  Moore  seems  to  have  called 
upon  "The  Three  Graces,"  daughters  of  a  Mr. 
Lawrence  who  lived  not  far  distant,  and  although 
he  averred  that  "  music  here  is  like  whistling  in  the 
wilderness,"  he  sang  for  these  ladies  some  of  his 
own  sentimental  songs,  being  accompanied  upon 
"the  first  piano  ever  owned  in  the  place."  From 
the  Ogden  house  Moore  made  the  excursion  to 
Passaic  Falls,  whence  he  wrote  to  his  mother  one  of 
his  habitually  defamatory  letters  concerning  Ameri- 
cans. Sixteen  years  afterward  he  expressed  to 
Washington  Irving  his  sorrow  over  these  epistles 
from  America,  the  production  of  which  he  pro- 
nounced "the  sin  of  his  early  life."  On  account 
of  the  defalcation  of  his  Bermuda  delegate,  Moore 
was  then  in  exile  in  Paris,  where  he  become  intimate 
with  Irving,  who  danced  with  "Bessie"  on  the 
tenth  anniversary  of  her  marriage  to  the  poet.  The 
"Bermuda  difficulty"  was  settled  from  the  proceeds 
of  the  sale  by  Moore  of  the  famous  Byron 
"Memoirs." 

54 


Resort  of  Irving — The  Salmagundians 

It  was  not  many  months  after  Moore's  visit  to 
the  Ogden  house  that  Irving  began  to  frequent  the 
imposing  old  mansion  which  then  stood  nearest  to 
it  on  the  north,  and  which  subsequently  was  cele- 
brated as  the  Cockloft  Hall  of  "Salmagundi." 
This  mansion  still  exists  in  a  neighborhood  which 
has  greatly  changed  since  Irving' s  time,  when  the 
Hall  was  "not  so  near  town  as  to  invite  an  inun- 
dation of  idle  acquaintance,  nor  so  distant  as  to  ren- 
der it  a  deed  of  charity  to  perform  the  journey ' ' ; 
the  growth  of  the  city  has  swept  far  past  it,  and 
blocks  of  buildings  cover  now  the  fair  fields  which 
erst  environed  it.  In  the  "Salmagundi"  days  it 
was  owned  by  Gouverneur  Kemble,  and  was  the 
resort  of  a  circle  of  choice  spirits,  wits  and  litt/ra- 
teurs  of  the  time,  variously  known  as  "The  An- 
cients," "Lads  of  Kilkenny,"  and  "The  Nine 
Worthies."  This  coterie  included,  among  others, 
Washington  Irving,  Peter  Irving  ("The  Doctor"), 
Kemble  ("The  Patroon"),  James  K.  Paulding 
("Billy  Taylor"),  Henry  Ogden,  and  they  would 
frequently  come  out  from  New  York  and  make  the 
old  place  gay  with  their  frolicsome  pranks.  Here 
the  humorous  and  satirical  "Salmagundi"  papers 
were  planned  and  partly  written,  and  the  mansion 
and  its  whimsical  occupants  figure  conspicuously  in 
their  pages. 

We  find  the  storied  hall  standing  in  the  midst  of 

55 


Literary  Rambles 

ample  lawns  on  Mount  Pleasant  Avenue.  A  few 
of  the  near-by  elms  and  sycamores  are  survivors  of 
the  Cockloft  period,  but  Christopher's  sacred  cherry- 
tree, —  called  Paulding's  tree  by  the  Salmagundians, 
because  of  a  droll  experience  of  the  author  of  "The 
Dutchman's  Fireside"  among  its  branches, —  which 
stood  at  the  northwest  corner  of  the  house,  was  re- 
moved not  many  years  ago.  The  tree,  "full  of 
fantastical  twists,"  which  was  Launcelot  Langstaff's 
lounging-place,  has  disappeared  from  the  eastern 
lawn,  and  a  railway  traverses  now  the  site  of  the 
Cockloft  fish-pond  and  of  the  famous  summer-house 
where  Irving  mused  and  wrote.  That  interesting 
structure  —  an  elaborate  octagonal  edifice  of  Dutch 
bricks  —  was  demolished  in  the  extension  of  a 
street,  and  some  of  its  materials  are  to  be  found 
in  the  foundation  walls  of  a  dwelling  within  a 
stone' s-throw  of  its  ancient  site.  The  mansion 
itself  has  been  renovated  and  modernized  until 
Pindar  Cockloft  would  scarcely  recognize  his  an- 
cestral abode ;  but  it  retains  its  wooden  walls  in 
their  original  form  and  dimensions,  and  its  chief 
essential  alteration  is  the  exchange  of  a  graceful 
mansard  for  the  hipped  roof,  with  its  surmounting 
gallery,  which  Irving  knew.  The  interior  has 
lost  the  antique  furniture  and  family  portraits,  to- 
gether with  the  heavy  oaken  wainscots  and  cornices 
of  the  olden  time,  and  its  decorations  and  furnish- 

56 


Cockloft  Hall 

ings  are  now  those  of  a  tasteful  and  elegant  modern 
home.  A  drawing-room  of  regal  dimensions,  on 
the  eastern  front,  was  the  "Chinese  Saloon"  in 
"Salmagundi"  days,  where  "The  Nine"  in- 
dulged in  some  of  their  absurd  pranks,  "  of  which 
games  of  leap-frog  were  the  least."  From  the 
windows  of  this  apartment  we  look  across  the  rem- 
nant of  the  ancient  lawn  to  the  river  —  bordered 
now  by  docks  and  lumber-yards,  which  replace  the 
fringing  willows  Irving  described  —  and  see  upon 
the  farther  shore  the  tower  of  Kearny's  castle  rising 
among  the  trees  not  far  from  the  birthplace  of 
"  Major  Jack  Downing." 

With  the  drawing-room  an  extension  is  united  at 
either  end,  forming  a  noble  suite  of  three  rooms,  of 
which  the  northern  is  —  as  it  was  of  yore  —  the 
library  of  the  mansion.  Here  Christopher  Cockloft 
preserved  the  "most  quaint  and  insufferable  books 
in  the  whole  compass  of  English,  Scotch,  and  Irish 
literature";  here  Will  Wizard  persued  his  anti- 
quarian studies  and  discovered  the  wonderful 
«'  Chronicles  of  the  Renowned  and  Ancient  City 
of  Gotham,"  which  appeared  in  "Salmagundi" 
and  anticipated  the  humor  and  style  of  "  Knicker- 
bocker's History";  here  may  now  be  seen  articles 
made  from  Paulding's  cherry-tree  and  a  ledger  in 
the  handwriting  of  the  ancient  owner  of  the  place. 
The  "  Green  Moreen  "  chamber  —  beloved  of  the 

57 


Literary  Rambles 

Salmagundians,  who  lay  here  in  bed  and,  through 
the  window,  shot  cherries  from  Paulding's  tree  — 
is  the  southwestern  room  of  the  second  floor,  and 
has  long  since  parted  with  its  distinctive  furniture 
and  hangings. 

Some  of  Irving' s  contributions  to  "  Salmagundi  " 
were  scarcely  excelled  by  the  later  productions  of 
his  graceful  pen.  One  of  his  family  has  told  this 
writer  that  Irving  once  designed  to  extend  the 
Cockloft  papers  by  making  Will  Wizard  marry 
Miss  Cockloft,  and  describing  a  whimsically  cere- 
monious wedding  at  the  venerable  hall.  Through 
all  the  successes  of  their  subsequent  lives  the  Salma- 
gundians retained  fond  recollections  of  this  place  and 
of  the  happy  days  passed  here.  Many  years  after- 
ward Paulding  —  author  of  twenty-seven  successful 
books  and  member  of  Van  Buren's  cabinet  —  wrote 
of  the  old  hall  in  terms  of  affectionate  regard ; 
Kemble,  in  a  letter  to  Irving  in  Europe,  said : 
"  Cockloft  Hall  is  still  mine:  I  look  forward  to  the 
time  when  we  shall  assemble  there,  recount  the 
stories  of  our  various  lives,  and  have  another  game 
of  leap-frog  ;"  and,  not  long  before  his  death,  we 
find  Irving  recalling  his  pleasant  memories  of  the 
place,  and  asking  of  Kemble,  in  allusion  to  their 
merry  frolics  here,  "  Who  would  have  thought  we 
should  ever  have  lived  to  be  such  respectable  old 
gentlemen ! ' ' 

58 


Ray  Palmer — H.  Ward — Miss  Douglas 

Directly  opposite  to  Cockloft  Hall,  on  tree- 
shaded  Mount  Pleasant  Avenue,  is  a  modest  and 
comfortable  frame  dwelling  where  lived  and  died 
Ray  Palmer,  writer  of  America's  best  contribution 
to  Christian  hymnology,  "  My  Faith  Looks  up  to 
Thee."  Here  many  of  his  sacred  lyrics  were 
composed  and  here  now  dwell  surviving  members 
of  his  family.  Upon  the  sightly  summit  of  the 
neighboring  Mount  Prospect  is  the  abode  of  Dr. 
William  Hayes  Ward  ;  it  is  a  handsome  brownstone 
structure  with  a  delightful  environment  of  sward, 
shrub,  and  tree,  and  with  a  wide  and  beautiful  prospect 
extending  to  the  tree-crowned  top  of  the  Watchung 
range.  For  above  a  quarter  of  a  century  this  has 
been  the  home  of  the  veteran  editor  of  The  In- 
dependent and  his  gifted  sister,  Miss  Susan  Hayes 
Ward,  who  have  here  performed  much  literary 
work ;  here,  too,  lived  Herbert  D.  Ward  before 
he  married  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps,  and  became  the 
hero  of  his  story  of  "  The  Burglar  that  Moved 
Paradise." 

On  the  lower  slope  of  this  elevation  of  Mount 
Prospect  lies  Summer  Avenue,  and  the  residence  of 
that  ready  and  prolific  writer,  Miss  Amanda  M. 
Douglas.  Hers  is  an  attractive  frame  dwelling, 
whose  windows  face  the  sunset ;  a  pleasant  front 
room  of  the  second  story,  literally  "  glorified  "  by 
large,  sunny  windows,  is  the  apartment  especially 

59 


Literary  Rambles 

favored  by  Miss  Douglas.  Well-filled  bookcases 
partially  cover  its  walls,  here  and  there  are  taste- 
ful pictures  and  articles  of  bric-a-brac,  and  every- 
where is  a  profusion  of  books,  magazines,  and 
papers.  In  a  cozy  corner  beside  the  brightest 
window  stands  a  little  desk,  and  here,  seated  in  a 
rocking-chair  which  "fits  her  well,"  the  author  of 
"In  Trust"  works  during  some  hours  of  most 
days  and  during  all  hours  of  some  days  upon  her 
manuscripts.  In  Summer  Avenue  she  has  written 
many  volumes,  embracing  all  of  the  "Sherburne" 
books,  and  the  popular  historical  series  from  "A 
Little  Girl  in  Old  New  York,"  to  "A  Little 
Girl  in  Old  Washington."  "In  Wild- Rose 
Time,"  which  Miss  Douglas  considers  her  best 
novel,  was  written  just  before  she  removed  to  this 
place. 

Mount  Prospect  overlooks  the  solitude  of  "The 
Cedars,"  where  the  brilliant  and  unhappy  Henry 
William  Herbert  passed  his  last  years  of  life. 
It  is  a  weird  and  romantic  spot  near  the  river-bank 
at  the  northeast  corner  of  Mount  Pleasant  Ceme- 
tery, selected  by  Herbert  because,  as  he  said,  the 
living  were  distant  and  the  dead  would  not  molest 
him.  In  this  place  he  erected  a  quaint,  gabled 
cottage,  above  whose  entrance  he  carved  the  arms 
of  the  high-born  English  family  to  which  he  be- 
longed;  and,  relinquishing  journalism,  he  with- 
60 


Herbert  at  "The  Cedars" 

drew  to  this  retreat  and  devoted  nearly  twelve 
years  of  almost  hermit-like  seclusion  to  beloved 
literary  occupations.  Here  he  wrote  twenty-three 
of  his  more  than  a  hundred  books  and  partia*lly 
completed  others,  including  a  spirited  translation  of 
Homer's  "Iliad."  Many  of  these  books  were 
once  widely  read  novels, —  of  which  "Cromwell" 
was  one  of  the  best, — but  nine  of  those  produced 
in  this  retirement  treated  of  field  sports  and  were 
published  under  the.  yet  popular  name  of  "Frank 
Forester." 

To  this  homelet,  in  his  last  fateful  year,  he 
brought  a  bride  who  left  him  three  months  later, 
and  whose  final  refusal  to  return  produced  the  men- 
tal agony  which  impelled  him  to  write,  "  All  is  lost, 
—  home,  hope,  sunshine,  she, —  let  life  go  likewise," 
and  to  cast  himself  uncalled  into  the  arms  of  death. 

A  few  visitors,  like  Anton,  Picton,  and  the  poet, 
Isaac  McLellan,  <?ame  to  Herbert  here  ;  a  more 
frequent  caller  was  an  unlettered  English  farmer 
living  a  half  mile  distant,  Mr.  I'Anson,  to  whom 
Herbert  was  greatly  attached,  and  to  whom  he 
wrote  the  day  before  his  suicide  begging  for  burial 
in  his  cemetery  plot.  I'Anson's  house,  which 
the  author  often  visited,  is  still  standing,  and  mem- 
bers of  his  family,  who  cherish  sympathetic  mem- 
ories of  Herbert,  reside  in  the  vicinage.  By  their 
direction  we  trace  the  site  of  his  hermitage  beneath 
61 


Literary  Rambles 

the  dark  evergreens  that  embosomed  it,  we  find  the 
trees  he  rooted,  the  course  of  his  path  across  the 
cemetery  to  the  highway,  the  spot  where  he  last 
parted  with  his  wife  and  where  he  designed  to  end 
his  own  wretched  existence. 

Not  far  from  this  spot,  in  the  center  of  the 
cemetery  for  whose  dedication  he  wrote  the  ode 
and  where  he  often  strolled  as  he  planned  his  com- 
positions, he  rests  in  the  refuge  he  sought.  Sol- 
emnly observing  every  wish  .expressed  by  poor 
Herbert  in  that  last  pathetic  letter  to  his  neighbor, 
the  faithful  FAnson  and  a  silent,  sorrowful  group 
of  friends  laid  the  wounded  body  here  in  the  loving 
lap  of  earth  without  a  word  of  priestly  prayer  or  bene- 
diction. Eighteen  years  afterward  a  belated  orison 
was  uttered  above  him,  and  the  local  Herbert  Asso- 
ciation erected  the  simple  slab  that  marks  his  grave. 
A  relative  of  his,  Mrs.  Margaret  Herbert  Mathers, 
—  herself  the  writer  of  many  graceful  sketches, — 
planted  upon  the  mound  ivy  brought  from  the  seat 
of  the  noble  English  family  from  which  he  was  de- 
scended, and  this  has  grown  until  grave  and  stone 
are  thickly  mantled  with  the  dark  foliage,  save 
where  a  loving  hand  keeps  it  trimmed  away  to 
show  the  inscription  dictated  by  Herbert  to  his 
friend,  the  simplest  record  of  his  years  and  the 
one  expressive  word,  "Infelicissimus." 

In  the  shade  and  quiet  of  the  place  all  things 
62 


Herbert's  Grave 

breathe  of  the  rest  and  "surcease  of  sorrow"  he 
risked  so  much  to  gain.  About  him  are  the  scenes 
he  loved  and  haunted  ;  swaying  boughs  bend  above 
his  bed,  a  near-by  pine  sighs  in  the  summer  wind, 
and,  in  many  a  leafy  covert,  birds  sing  for  him  the 
requiem  which  man  refused. 


WHERE  STOCKTON   WROTE 
HIS   STORIES 

Rutherford  Home  —  Scenes  of  Rudder  Grange  — Pomona— Other 
Characters  -  The  Holt,  Madison- Author's  Workshop  - 
Historic  Morristown  and  its  Writers  —  Virginia  Scenes  of 
Fiction  — Mrs.  Null—Ardls  Cla-verden,  etc.- Stockton' t 
Present  Home  —  Study  —  Con-venations  —  Method  of  Liter- 
ary Work  — Solutions  of  "  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger?"  etc. 

'f  T7E  may  fitly  begin  the  present  ramble  at  the 
*  ^  place  where  the  previous  ramble  ended,  the 
shaded  bank  of  the  Passaic  where,  by  the  site  of  his 
ruined  home,  poor  Henry  William  Herbert  sleeps 
in  a  suicide's  grave  while  his  own  " Cedars"  whis- 
per above  him  of  the  silence  and  mystery. 

Above  Newark  the  once  "pure  and  pellucid 
streme"  is  bordered  by  trees  beneath  which  a 
pleasant  highway  follows  the  curving  river-bank  and 
brings  us  to  the  pretty,  park-like  town  of  Ruther- 
ford and  to  scenes  of  Frank  R.  Stockton's  life  and 
work.  The  "Roundabout  Rambles,"  the  "Ting- 
a-ling,"  and  other  minor  stories  had  been  written 
and  much  editorial  work  had  been  wrought  by  him 
before  he  came  to  this  place,  but  it  was  here  that 
his  phenomenally  successful  literary  career  really  be- 
gan with  that  first  —  and  perhaps  best  —  distinc- 
tively Stocktonese  story,  "  Rudder  Grange,"  whose 
scenes  and  characters  he  found  in  and  about  his 
Rutherford  home. 

64 


Stockton's  Rutherford  Cottage 

His  quondam  abode  here  is  now  numbered  one 
hundred  and  ninety-two  Passaic  Avenue,  and  stands, 
practically  unchanged  since  his  occupancy,  upon  a 
green,  shaded  slope  which  falls  away  toward  the 
river  and  the  sunset.  It  is  a  pleasant  and  pic- 
turesque frame  cottage  of  two  stories,  with  pretty 
porches  and  bay-windows,  and  cozy  rooms  whose 
western  casements  afford  us  an  enchanting  prospect. 
We  look  down  a  long  decline  to  the  fringe  of  over- 
hanging trees  that  conceals  the  river,  and  see,  rising 
from  its  farther  margin,  a  mild  acclivity  checkered 
with  verdant  fields  that  stretch  away  to  the  darker 
woodlands,  above  which  mounts  distant  Watchung, 
its  wooded  ridge  indented  by  the  historic  Great 
Notch.  Between  us  and  the  far  mountain  lies 
Montclair,  where  dwelt  John  Habberton  when  he 
wrote  "Helen's  Babies,"  and  Nutley,  where 
Henry  C.  Bunner  lived  and  produced  delightful 
poems  and  books.  At  Nutley,  too,  lived  Mr. 
Stockton's  friend,  for  whose  evening  party  the  dis- 
tractful  story  of  "The  Lady  or  the  Tiger?"  was 
originally  designed. 

The  Stockton  cottage  is  placed  in  the  midst  of  a 
greensward  dotted  here  and  there  with  shrubbery 
and  broken  by  the  flower-beds  which  the  German 
servant- girl  of  "Rudder  Grange"  decorated  with 
the  border  of  ham-bones  with  flower  seeds  planted 
in  their  marrow  cavities.  By  the  roadside  is  more 
E  65 


Literary  Rambles 

than  one  tree  that  might  have  borne  the  cabalistic 
inscription  which  frightened  away  the  tramps  ;  and 
upon  the  lawn,  before  and  beside  the  cottage,  are 
dark  evergreens  and  other  tall  trees  that  stood  here 
in  Mr.  Stockton's  day,  among  which  we  may 
make  our  choice — it  will  not  be  disputed  —  of  the 
one  hi  which  the  dog,  Lord  Edward,  "treed"  the 
tree-man.  With  the  same  freedom  may  we  locate 
for  ourselves,  in  the  clear  space  behind  the  dwelling, 
the  arena  of  the  dog-fight  —  instigated  by  Pomona 
and  witnessed  by  the  "'Piscopal  minister"  — 
which  made  the  male  Rudder  Granger  a  church 
vestryman.  Other  scenes,  like  the  site  of  the 
summer  camp  of  the  Ardens, —  afterward  occupied 
by  the  ex-boarder, —  are  not  far  away,  and  a  stroll 
along  the  shady  river-bank  will  sometimes  discover 
the  remains  of  more  than  one  canal-boat  which  may 
have  been  the  prototype  of  the  first  "Rudder 
Grange,"  since,  for  the  purposes  of  the  tale,  Mr. 
Stockton  transferred  that  famous  craft  from  the 
Harlem  River  to  the  neighborhood  of  his  home. 

Most  of  the  characters  of  that  inimitably  humor- 
ous story  may  be  identified  more  definitely,  being, 
even  to  the  rascally  old  John,  persons  whom  the 
author  observed  at  Rutherford. 

The  unique  Pomona  who  figures  so  prominently 
in  the  tale  was  a  maid-of-all-work  here  in  the 
Stockton  household.  She  was  procured  from  a 
66 


Characters  of  "Rudder  Grange" 

charitable  institution  of  New  York  and  bore  in  real 
life  a  name  so  absurdly  romantic  that  it  must  have 
been  assumed.  This  hand-maiden  had  in  her  men- 
tal composition  the  same  odd  combination  of  the 
practical  with  the  sentimental  which  is  attributed  to 
Pomona,  and  with  it  all  of  Pomona's  eccentricities, 
including  her  habit  of  reading  to  herself,  in  distinct 
syllables  and  very  loud  tones,  the  most  harrowing 
tales  of  agony  and  blood.  Other  even  less  endura- 
ble peculiarities  of  hers  caused  the  Stocktons  to  part 
with  her  after  a  few  months,  and  the  subsequent 
career  of  the  girl  is  more  or  less  a  matter  of  mys- 
tery, for  in  real  life  she  did  not  marry  Jonas  and 
undergo  all  those  irresistibly  droll  experiences  which 
the  author  invents  for  her  in  his  fiction.  She 
thought  herself  to  be  a  "born  actress,"  and  Mr. 
Stockton  has  more  than  once  led  or  left  this  present 
writer  to  infer  that  she  went  upon  the  stage,  not 
"to  scrub  the  stage  and  work  up  by  scrubbing  the 
galleries,"  but  to  rise  to  eminence  on  more  ambi- 
tious and  remunerative  histrionic  lines.  Which  of 
our  successful  actresses  she  is  not  Mr.  Stockton  will 
readily  tell  us,  but  which  she  is  has  never  been 
extorted  from  him. 

The  German  servant  and  the  canine  Lord  Edward 
were  actualities,  and  the  character  of  "the  boarder" 
was  suggested  by  a  veritable  boarder  who  was  the 
friend  of  the  Stocktons  and  shared  their  home. 

67 


Literary  Rambles 

The  "nearest  neighbor,"  who,  in  the  story, 
lived  "within  vigorous  shouting  distance"  —  he 
would  not  be  the  nearest  now,  for  other  dwellings 
have  been  erected  closer  by  than  his  pleasant  domi- 
cile—  was  the  author's  especial  friend,  Doctor 
Williams,  with  whom  the  Stocktons  sojourned  for  a 
time  after  they  had  relinquished  this  cottage  home. 
The  little  toddler -5 — himself  "scarcely  weaned  be- 
fore he  began  to  carry  milk  to  other  people ' '  — 
who  served  the  Rudder  Grangers  with  their  accus- 
tomed "lacteal  pint"  was  also  real,  and  came  daily 
to  the  Stocktons'  kitchen-door  from  a  neighboring 
farm-house,  which  is  now  used  by  the  Salvation 
Army  as  a  children's  home.  The  scheming  old  John 
was,  not  long  ago,  still  living  in  the  neighborhood. 

The  vexatious  incidents  of  the  house-hunting, 
which  are  so  humorously  narrated  in  the  first  chap- 
ter of  the  story,  were  part  of  the  actual  experiences 
of  Mr.  Stockton  and  his  wife  in  the  quest  which 
resulted  in  their  taking  the  Rutherford  cottage,  and 
throughout  the  book,  mingled  with  the  quaint  situa- 
tions and  comical  incidents,  are  vistas  of  a  simple 
and  happy  domestic  life  which  may  easily  have  been 
the  author's  in  this  unpretentious  home. 

It  is  noteworthy  that  this  story  of  "  Rudder 
Grange,"  which  proved  such  an  instant  and  com- 
plete success  and  gained  for  its  author  international 
fame,  was  "declined  with  thanks"  by  several  pub- 
68 


"The  Holt" 

lishers  before  one  was  found  willing  to  take  the 
risks  of  its  publication. 

The  slopes  of  yonder  Watchung  Mountain  have 
been  the  retreat  of  many  famed  in  literature  or  art, 
and  in  one  home  of  lettered  refinement  upon  its 
summit  Hamilton  W.  Mabie  sits  by  his  "Study 
Fire"  or  "Under  the  Trees"  to  ponder  and  write 
his  volumes  of  brilliant  and  scholarly  essays ;  the 
region  beyond  is  the  "hill  country  of  New  Jersey," 
—  scene  of  "The  Great  Stone  of  Sardis," — and 
there,  near  the  head-waters  of  the  stream  which 
flows  by  his  Rutherford  cottage,  we  find  a  later 
home  of  Mr.  Stockton.  This  home  has  been,  more 
than  any  other,  associated  with  his  literary  work 
and  is  therefore  paramount  in  our  interest  and 
affection. 

From  the  western  verge  of  an  elevated  plateau, 
midway  between  Madison  and  Morristown,  a 
wooded  promontory  juts  into  the  romantic  valley 
of  the  Loantaka,  and  upon  this  eminence  is  set  the 
mansion  which,  for  a  decade  of  years,  held  our 
author's  Lares  and  Penates.  The  approach  is  by  a 
broad  avenue,  shaded  by  tall  elms  and  shapely 
maples,  whence  a  driveway  circles  across  a  lawn 
and  among  trees  and  shrubbery  to  the  entrance 
door. 

The  house  is  an  ample  and  imposing  structure  of 
wood  of  irregular  design,  with  a  fine  portico  in  front 
69 


Literary  Rambles 

and  with  balconies  beneath  its  arched  windows; 
from  one  portion  of  the  roof  rises  among  the  tree- 
tops  a  multi-storied  square  tower  —  erected  for  an 
observatory  by  a  former  owner,  Professor  Kitchell, 
of  the  State  Geological  Survey  —  which  gave  to  the 
mansion  the  name  of  "  The  Tower  House,"  by 
which  it  was  locally  known  for  forty  years.  This 
appellation  was  superseded  by  «'  The  Holt"  (old 
Saxon  for  wooded  hill),  the  name  appropriately  be- 
stowed by  Stockton.  Within,  high-ceiled  rooms 
of  generous  size  flank  upon  either  side  a  central  hall — 
parlors  upon  the  left,  and  a  dining-room  on  the 
right. 

To  the  northwest  corner  of  the  mansion  Stockton 
added  the  study;  it  is  a  spacious  apartment,  with 
panelled  ceiling,  and  with  windows  that  look  out 
upon  an  entrancing  landscape  of  green  and  golden 
fields  and  farther  forest-clad  hills  —  a  prospect  whose 
beauties  surely  must  have  sometimes  allured  the 
author's  vision  from  the  grotesque  mental  pictures 
that  were  being  portrayed  upon  his  page.  The 
tiles  beneath  the  study  mantel  bear  this  apt  invo- 
cation, 

"  Yee  that  frequent  the  Hilles  and  highest  Holtes  of  All, 
Assist  me  with  your  skilful  Quilles  and  listen  when  I  call," 

which  Stockton  told  us  was  discovered  by  Mary 

Mapes  Dodge  in  the  verse  of  quaint  old  Turberville 

70 


Stockton  at  "The  Holt" 

and  sent  to  "The  Holt"  several  years  ago.  In 
this  study  were  produced  many  of  his  thirty  or  more 
books  —  he  never  counted  them  —  including,  among 
others,  "The  House  of  Martha,"  "The  Squirrel 
Inn,"  "Pomona's  Travels,"  "Adventures  of 
Captain  Horn,"  "The  Girl  at  Cobhurst,"  "The 
Great  Stone  of  Sardis,"  "  The  Associate  Hermits," 
and  many  minor  stories  and  sketches. 

Of  the  tales  written  here,  the  scenes  of  only  a 
few  of  the  short  ones  are  laid  in  the  vicinage,  ex- 
cepting only  the  marvelous  "  Great  Stone  of  Sardis," 
which,  in  a  general  way,  is  located  in  this  highland 
region  of  New  Jersey.  It  has  been  said  Stockton 
discovered  the  original  of  the  sign  of  "  The  Squirrel 
Inn ' '  during  one  of  his  drives  along  a  woodland 
road  not  far  from  this  home,  but  that  crooked 
hostelry  is  itself  placed  upon  a  different  and  distant 
site. 

Arthur  B.  Frost,  the  famous  artist  in  black  and 
white,  who  lives  at  the  farther  end  of  a  path  which 
leads  across  a  field  from  "The  Holt,"  was  the 
illustrator  of  "  Rudder  Grange,"  and  it  is  believed 
that  his  own  form  is  pictured  as  that  of  the  male 
Rudder  Granger. 

More  than  once  was  it  our  privilege  to  visit 
Stockton  here  in  his  study,  to  walk  with  him  under 
the  trees  that  crown  the  hilltop,  or  sit  in  converse 
with  him  upon  the  lawn  while  soft  winds  murmured 

71 


Literary  Rambles 

in  the  foliage  overhead,  and  the  air  was  caressed 
with  song.  From  the  smooth  sward  rise  stately 
spruces  which  partially  hide  the  mansion  from  the 
highway,  and  in  the  depths  of  their  foliage  are 
room-like  recesses  of  summer  shade  and  coolness, 
where  hammocks  and  rustic  seats  tempted  the 
loiterer  to  "sweet  doing- nothing. "  The  hill  falls 
away  upon  three  sides, —  as  described  by  Stockton 
in  "My  Terminal  Moraine," — its  slopes  clothed 
with  noble  old  forest  trees,  oaks,  chestnuts,  poplars, 
hickories,  which  are  surviving  members  of  the  wood 
that  once  covered  the  country-side.  Flowers  and 
shrubs  deck  the  grounds  about  the  house ;  a  tall 
screen  of  evergreen  conceals  stable,  orchard,  and 
garden  at  the  one  side,  and,  by  the  farther  margin 
of  the  lawn  upon  the  other  side,  a  great  oak  — 
called  by  the  genius  loci  the  "Corner  Oak"  — 
shades  with  its  wide-spreading  branches  a  rustic  seat 
and  a  reach  of  velvet  turf.  Paths  wind  along  the 
slope  and  among  the  trees,  and  lead  to  cozy  retreats 
and  sightly  outlooks. 

Sweeping  away  in  every  direction  to  a  far  horizon 
of  green  hills  is  an  expanse  of  field,  orchard,  and 
woodland,  through  which  Mr.  Stockton  took  his 
daily  afternoon  drive  behind  his  favorite  roadsters. 
Southward  the  long  range  of  Watchung  bounds  a 
broad  champaign,  in  another  direction  rise  the  loftier 
summits  of  the  central  highlands,  and  away  in  the 
72 


Morristown 

north  are  heights  which  look  down  upon  the  storied 
Ramapo.  Yonder,  in  the  middle-distance,  lies  his- 
toric Morristown, —  described  as  "  Marrowfat"  by 
the  author  of  "Rutledge,"  who  once  lived  and 
wrote  there, —  where  we  find  the  theater  of  one  of 
Mr.  Stockton's  "Stories  of  New  Jersey  "•  there, 
too,  we  see  the  home  of  Thomas  Nast  and  the 
sometime  abode  of  Bret  Harte,  who  laid  the  scenes 
of  his  story  of  "Thankful  Blossom"  in  and  around 
that  delightful  old  town. 

Nearer,  at  the  foot  of  Stockton's  wooded  hill, 
stretches  the  lovely  valley  of  the  Loantaka,  with  its 
pathetic  memories  of  patriotic  endurance  and  en- 
deavor ;  just  beyond  the  verdant  ridge  that  borders 
the  valley  on  the  west  is  the  ancient  farm-house, 
"with  its  shaded  yard  and  the  great  willow  behind 
it,"  once  the  home  of  "Tempe  Wick"  and  the 
scene  of  the  occurrences  upon  which  Stockton's 
story  is  founded,  where  we  may  yet  see  the  back 
room  in  which  the  heroine  secreted  her  steed  to 
save  it  from  the  soldiery;  and  farther  among  these 
sunset  hills  is  the  home  of  John  Gilmer  Speed,  the 
gifted  grand-nephew  of  the  poet  of  "  Endymion. " 

Stockton  has  always  loved  Virginia, —  the  State 
which  gave  his  mother  birth  and  was  the  girlhood 
home  of  the  lady  who  is  now  his  wife, —  and  since 
his  marriage  he  has  made  frequent  and  prolonged 

73 


Literary  Rambles 

sojourns  in  that  venerable  Commonwealth.  Not 
far  from  the  banks  of  the  historic  Appomattox,  in 
the  black  belt  of  southern  Virginia,  is  Paineville, 
the  home  of  Mrs.  Stockton's  relatives,  and  three 
miles  away  is  Elmwood,  the  scene  of  several  of 
Mr.  Stockton's  Southern  stories.  This  old  mansion 
figures  in  "The  Late  Mrs.  Null"  as  the  home  of 
the  heroine,  Roberta  March.  An  idea  of  the  age 
of  this  ample  edifice  is  given  by  the  fact  that  a  room 
which  was  added  for  the  use  of  visitors  is  still  called 
"the  new  room,"  although  it  was  a  hundred  years 
old  at  the  time  of  Stockton's  long  visit  to  the 
place.  Upon  its  broad  lawn  a  summer  office,  up- 
held by  wooden  piles,  stands  in  the  shade  of  tall 
trees,  and  this  was  the  author's  workshop  during 
extended  visits  to  the  place.  Here  many  of  his 
stories,  including  "The  Lady  or  the  Tiger?"  were 
dictated  to  his  wife,  and  many  more  —  among  them 
being  his  first  novel,  "The  Late  Mrs.  Null" — • 
were  conceived  and  mentally  elaborated  to  be 
written  after  his  return  to  the  North. 

In  the  vicinage  of  this  homestead  are  laid  the 
scenes  of  more  than  one  incident  of  his  tales :  the 
hamlet  of  Paineville,  three  miles  distant,  figures  as 
Akeville  in  "What  Might  Have  Been  Expected," 
Midbranch  and  other  scenes  of "  The  Late  Mrs. 
Null ' '  were  suggested  to  the  author  by  places  known 
to  him  here,  and  pictured  with  more  or  less  dis- 

74 


Southern  Scenes  and  Characters 

tinctness  in  his  pages.  Of  the  negro  characters  who 
appear  in  his  stories  of  Southern  life  most  were 
drawn  from  the  colored  people  in  Paineville  and  at 
Elm  wood.  The  Uncle  Pete  of  "A  Story  of  Seven 
Devils  ' '  was  a  real  negro  preacher  ;  the  Grandison 
Pratt  and  Brother  'Bijah  of  "  Grandison' s  Quan- 
dary," the  Aunt  Judy  of  "What  Might  Have  Been 
Expected,"  the  Plez,  Peggy,  Uncle  Isham,  and 
Aunt  Patsy  of  "The  Late  Mrs.  Null,"  Uncle 
Elijah  of  "The  Cloverfields  Carriage,"  as  well  as 
John  William  Webster,  Brother  Enoch,  and  the  rest, 
are  portraitures  of  persons  then  existent  hereabout. 
Some  individuals,  like  Uncle  Braddock  and  Aunt 
Matilda,  wear  in  his  fiction  the  names  by  which 
they  were  known  in  real  life,  and  highly  elated  were 
they  by  the  distinction  thus  conferred. 

A  few  of  his  white  characters  were  more  or  less 
definitely  suggested  by  persons  the  author  met. 
Some  of  the  incidents  of  his  stories  were  actual 
occurrences  in  this  neighborhood  and  were  made 
known  to  him  here :  such,  for  instance,  are  the 
events  of  "A  Story  of  Seven  Devils"  and  "The 
Cloverfields  Carriage  ' ' ;  while  the  incident  of  Mrs. 
Keswick's  revenge  never  happened  as  it  is  narrated, 
something  did  occur  so  much  like  it  as  to  suggest  to 
the  quick-witted  author  that  astonishing  episode. 

Among  the  outlying  mountains  near  the  eastern 
base  of  the  Blue  Ridge  is  another  Virginia  resort  of 

75 


Literary  Rambles 

Stockton.  Here,  at  a  country-place,  sometime  a 
part  of  the  estate  of  Jefferson,  who  lived  near  by  and 
gave  to  this  seat  the  name  of  Lego,  which  it  still 
bears,  our  author  dwelt  during  five  fruitful  summers. 
His  hosts  were  descendants  of  the  illustrious  writer 
of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  and  the  sym- 
metrical summit  of  Monticello,  with  its  crown  of 
foliage,  is  a  pleasing  feature  of  the  broad  and 
animating  landscape.  Miles  of  the  green  valley 
of  the  Rivanna  are  in  view,  low  mountains  and 
rounded  hills  cluster  upon  either  hand,  and  on  the 
western  horizon  the  Ridge,  a  mighty  wall,  upholds 
the  sky. 

The  mansion  in  which  Stockton  sojourned  was 
destroyed  by  fire  a  few  years  ago  and  its  successor  is 
built  in  different  fashion,  but  the  great  trees,  beneath 
which  was  his  study  in  the  summer  days,  remain 
upon  the  sward.  Lying  in  his  hammock  here,  with 
Mrs.  Stockton  seated  near  at  a  little  table  with  quaint 
side- wings,  that  once  was  Jefferson's  writing-stand, 
he  recounted  to  her  his  humorous  conceits,  which 
she  rapidly  recorded.  Here  were  written  several 
short  stories  and  the  novel  of  "Ardis  Claverden," 
the  scenes  of  which  are  found  in  this  locality, — 
Bald  Hill,  the  home  of  the  bewitching  heroine, 
Heatherley,  the  seat  of  the  Crantons,  and  other 
scenes  being  pen  pictures  of  places  in  this  rolling 
region  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains. 
76 


Stockton's  Present  Home 

Near  the  storied  Shenandoah,  at  the  western  base 
of  the  Blue  Ridge,,  in  that  picturesque  region  of 
West  Virginia  which  "Porte  Crayon" — who  lived 
in  the  adjoining  county  —  loved  to  picture,  lies  Clay- 
mont,  the  present  home  of  Stockton.  Journeying  up 
the  historic  valley,  through  which  for  five  cruel  years 
ebbed  and  flowed  the  tides  of  fratricidal  war,  we  find 
two  miles  beyond  Charles  Town,  where  John  Brown 
was  executed,  a  driveway  leading  to  the  left  from  the 
highroad;  if  we  follow  its  curves  for  three  quarters  of  a 
mile  through  a  wide  stretch  of  woodland,  we  come 
to  the  country-seat  which  is  the  object  of  our  quest. 

It  is  set  in  the  midst  of  an  estate  of  three  thousand 
acres, — -once  owned  by  Washington, — of  which  one 
hundred  and  fifty  acres  of  diversified  forest,  lawn, 
and  meadow  are  now  the  property  of  our  fanciful 
magician.  The  mansion,  planned  by  Washington, 
erected  by  Washington's  grand-nephew  and  named 
for  a  Washington  horn  stead  in  England,  is  a  venerable 
structure  of  buff-colored  brick,  of  ample  and  impos- 
ing proportions,  built  in  the  sedate  colonial  style. 
Dormer  windows  peep  from  the  roofs ;  a  tall  tile- 
floored  portico  protects  the  northern  entrance ;  a 
glass-inclosed  conservatory  projects  from  the  south ; 
a  deep  veranda  shades  the  length  of  this  front  and, 
along  the  central  part  of  the  mansion,  rises  —  two 
stories  high — to  the  eaves.  Smaller  edifices,  one 
utilized  as  an  "annex  for  visitors"  and  the  other 

77 


Literary  Rambles 

occupied  by  the  servants  of  the  family,  stand  at  the 
eastern  and  western  sides  of  the  house  and  are  con- 
nected with  it  by  walls  of  brick,  inclosing  court- 
yards. The  dwelling  is  pleasantly  placed  upon  a  slight 
elevation  among  romantic  and  inspiring  scenes :  on 
the  north,  only  an  undulating  strip  of  sward  separates 
it  from  grand  old  woods;  on  the  south,  a  wide  lawn 
extends  to  terraced  gardens,  green  pastures,  and 
farther  forests  beyond  which  a  great  expanse  of  the 
beautiful  valley  is  in  view  and  many  miles  of  the 
bordering  mountain- chain,  the  Blue  Ridge,  visible 
in  fine  weather  to  the  heights  which  overhang  the 
Potomac  at  historic  Harper's  Ferry. 

The  interior  of  the  mansion  more  than  fulfils 
the  promise  of  its  exterior.  A  hall  of  baronial 
proportions,  lined  with  handsomely  carven  oaken 
panels,  adjoins  the  entrance;  opening  out  of  this  are 
the  principal  rooms — parlor,  dining-room,  library, 
all  lofty  and  spacious  apartments  tastefully  fitted 
and  furnished. 

Adjoining  the  library  is  the  study  in  which  the 
creator  of  Sarah  Block,  Mrs.  Leeks,  Mrs.  Aleshine 
and  the  procession  of  inimitable  Stocktonian  char- 
acters dictates  the  stories  which  delight  the  world  of 
readers.  Here  the  privileged  visitor  may  sit  with 
the  master  of  the  place — a  quiet,  mild-mannered  man, 
slight  of  figure,  vibrant  of  voice,  strong  yet  mobile 
of  face,  with  hair  and  mustache  of  iron  gray,  and 

78 


Stockton's  Study 

with  large,  dark,  luminous  eyes  that  behold  every- 
thing about  them — responsive  eyes  that  dance  with 
merriment  or  deepen  with  feeling. 

The  study  hi  which  his  literary  work  is  done  is 
of  all  places  the  one  most  meet  for  a  chat  with  the 
author  concerning  his  books.  It  is  a  vast,  cheerful, 
pleasantly  furnished  apartment,  occupying  the  west- 
ern end  of  the  mansion.  Its  six  great  double  windows 
look  northward  into  the  forest  of  oaks  and  southward 
far  along  the  sunny  valley.  An  open  desk  stands 
near  one  window  and  a  large  oval  table  holds  a  few 
volumes  of  reference,  but  there  is  little  in  the  room  to 
suggest  the  literary  workshop.  The  usual  disorder 
of  manuscripts,  papers,  and  books  is  conspicuously 
absent  and  we  look  in  vain  for  some  justification  of 
the  averment  of  a  visitor  that,  while  the  touch  of  the 
lady  is  seen  in  the  other  apartments,  the  tiger  evi- 
dently holds  undisputed  sway  in  the  study :  except 
for  an  array  of  unanswered  letters  upon  the  desk, 
this  room  is  as  orderly  as  any  other  in  that  well- 
ordered  house. 

The  bookcase  in  the  study  is  mostly  filled  with 
the  different  editions  of  Stockton's  own  books,  from 
"The  Ting-a-ling  Stories"  to  "The  Vizier  of  the 
Two-Horned  Alexander,"  including  translations 
into  several  languages:  of  these,  one  cherished  vol- 
ume is  an  Italian  version  of  "The  Griffin  and  the 
Minor  Canon,"  the  work  of  a  young  lady  spending 

79 


Literary  Rambles 

a  winter  in  Rome,  who  made  the  translation,  en- 
grossed the  whole  book  with  her  pen,  illustrated  it 
with  spirited  drawings,  tastefully  illuminated  the 
initial  capitals,  and  bound  the  volume  in  sumptuous 
old  vellum  as  an  offering  to  her  favorite  author. 
Among  the  curios  upon  the  case  are  fantastic  figures 
in  flannel  of  the  lady  and  the  tiger — in  this  instance 
the  lady  is  riding  the  tiger — and  of  Mrs.  Leeks 
equipped  for  shipwreck  with  an  umbrella  and  a 
metallic  case  of  provisions,  her  features  being  delin- 
eated in  sepia  upon  a  facies  of  hickory  -nut.  Another 
grotesque  image,  a  diminutive  Japanese  manikin  that 
savagely  thrusts  a  great  sword  when  his  spinal  cord 
is  pulled  upon,  was  the  gift  of  Mary  L.  Booth, 
the  late  editor  of  Harper's  Bazar,  and  represents 
"The  Discourager  of  Hesitancy."  A  murderous- 
looking  oriental  blade,  which  lies  conveniently  near, 
is  probably  displayed  with  intent  to  intimidate  the 
visitor  who  might  be  tempted  to  ask  in  person  of 
the  long-suffering  author  which  it  really  was,  "The 
Lady  or  the  Tiger?"  It  may  be  safer  to  discharge 
that  perennial  question  at  him  at  longer  range  and 
through  the  medium  of  the  mails. 

In  this  study  Stockton  is,  when  at  home,  regularly 
engaged  for  about  three  hours  of  each  morning.  In 
his  literary  work  he  never  writes  with  his  own  hancl 
but  dictates  to  a  deft  stenographer;  when  we  men- 
tion, among  the  manifest  advantages  of  this  method 
80 


How  Stockton  Works 

his  immunity  from  scrivener's  paralysis,  he  exclaims 
in  mock  dismay,  "But  what  if  it  should  attack 
my  jaw  ? ' ' 

Seated  here  in  the  easiest  of  easy«-chairs,  he  nar- 
rates the  first  draft  of  his  matchless  stories,  which 
usually — even  to  the  conversations  and  the  minutest 
details — have  been  constructed  in  his  mind  perhaps 
months  before  a  word  of  them  is  written.  Rarely 
there  may  be  a  question  concerning  some  matter  of 
the  story,  or  a  doubt  as  to  the  very  best  word  to  be 
employed,  which  must  be  duly  deliberated  and  set- 
tled in  the  author's  mind  before  the  dictation  can  be 
commenced  or  resumed,  and,  as  "The  Discourager 
of  Hesitancy ' '  is  not  permitted  to  prompt  his  creator 
with  the  whispered  "I  am  here,"  it  sometimes 
happens  that  the  stenographer  has  little  or  nothing 
in  her  note-book  at  the  end  of  the  session.  Under 
favorable  conditions  fifteen  hundred  words  is  an 
average  morning's  work.  From  this  first  draft  the 
copy  for  the  printer  is  made  by  the  secretary  in  an 
upper  room  of  the  house,  whence  the  sharp  clatter 
of  the  type- writer  is  inaudible  to  the  household. 

Of  all  his  humorous  works  the  author  most  en- 
joyed writing  "The  Casting  Away  of  Mrs.  Leeks 
and  Mrs.  Aleshine."  He  sometime  knew  those 
delightful  old  ladies  in  the  flesh, — they  are  both 
dead  now, —  and  although  in  real  life  they  never 
had  any  of  the  experiences  imagined  for  them  in 
F  81 


Literary  Rambles 

the  story,  they  possessed,  with  the  other  quaint 
peculiarities  described,  the  ultra-practical  habit  of 
mind  which  would  prompt  them  to  do  just  the 
things  imputed  to  them  in  the  tale  if  similarly  cir- 
cumstanced. A  majority  of  readers  have  preferred 
"Rudder  Grange,"  if  we  may  judge  by  the  com- 
parative circulation  of  his  books ;  the  phenomenal 
sales  of  "The  Late  Mrs.  Null,"  his  first  long 
novel,  led  for  a  time,  but  the  popular  demand  for 
that  book  has  not  been  so  continuous  and  persistent 
as  for  the  earlier  favorite. 

Of  the  female  characters  of  his  fiction,  Mr. 
Stockton  confesses  to  an  especial  fondness  for  the 
racy  and  piquant  "Ardis  Claverden."  The  long- 
sought  type  of  this  heroine  was  finally  found  in  a 
famous  American  authoress  of  our  day,  who,  suffi- 
ciently disguised,  stood  as  the  pattern :  Ardis  is  a 
name  hereditary  in  the  family  of  the  author's  mother, 
down  in  Virginia. 

The  much  discussed  sketch,  "The  Lady  or  the 
Tiger?"  which  drove  a  host  of  readers  to  the 
brink  of  madness,  was  written  nearly  twenty  years 
ago,  but  the  epistolary  and  controversial  conse- 
quences of  that  conundrum  have  occupied  not  a 
little  of  the  author's  time  and  attention  ever  since. 
Letters  from  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  people,  de- 
manding or  entreating  private  information  as  to 
which  door  the  lover  opened,  have  come  in  such 
82 


Was  it  "the  Lady  or  the  Tiger?" 

numbers  that  Mr.  Stockton  once  contemplated  hav- 
ing a  printed  answer  prepared  declaring  that  he  had 
no  idea  himself  which  it  was.  Letters  of  inquiry 
are  still  received,  but  in  diminished  numbers,  and 
usually  from  the  second  generation  of  readers  of  the 
perplexing  problem. 

The  correspondents  who  themselves  gave  an  ex- 
press answer  to  the  question  were  about  evenly 
divided  in  opinion  between  the  lady  and  the  tiger ; 
it  is  notable  that  the  poet  Browning  was  among 
those  who  thought  that  the  lady  sent  her  lover  to 
the  tiger.  Some  of  the  solutions  of  the  problem 
were  fortified  by  pages  of  reasoning  which  had 
manifestly  cost  the  writers  much  thought,  and  of 
the  many  and  diverse  extensions  of  the  story  sug- 
gested by  correspondents  the  author  tells  us  of  not  a 
few  that  are  interesting  and  ingenious.  According 
to  one  of  these,  the  tiger  during  the  preliminary 
proceedings  of  the  tribunal  broke  into  the  compart- 
ment of  the  lady  and  devoured  her;  then,  being 
gorged  with  his  repast,  he  lazily  walked  out  when 
his  door  was  opened  and  lay  down  to  sleep  upon 
the  sands  of  the  arena.  In  another  version  the 
lady's  door  was  opened  and  the  young  man  was 
accordingly  married  to  her,  and  speedily  found  in 
her  temper  and  disposition  the  evidence  that  he  had 
acquired  both  the  lady  and  the  tiger.  A  more  fe- 
licitous termination  is  foreshadowed  by  still  another 


Literary  Rambles 

version  in  which  the  princess  herself  is  secreted 
behind  the  door  on  the  right,  while  a  friend  of 
hers,  disguised  in  her  robes,  occupies  her  seat  by 
the  king's  side,  and  by  a  movement  of  the  hand  to 
the  right  indicates  to  the  lover  which  door  he  shall 
open. 

The  location  of  Stockton's  new  home  in  this 
beautiful  valley  suggested  the  title  of  the  superb 
library  edition  of  his  works  recently  published. 
Since  his  removal  to  Claymont,  revising  and  read- 
ing proof  for  this  Shenandoah  edition  have  occupied 
much  of  his  time,  and  he  has  also  written  several 
delightful  short  stories.  As  yet  no  completed  book 
has  been  produced  in  this  ideal  retreat,  but  we  may 
be  assured  that  in  other  years  he  will  here  conjure 
additional  Stocktonese  personages,  combinations,  and 
plots,  and  produce  more  of  those  droll  delineations 
of  human  character  which,  for  his  readers,  make 
old  earth  a  sunnier  and  happier  abode,  and  which 
"will  outlive  a  thousand  laughs,  because  fun  is 
only  their  color  and  not  their  substance." 


84 


THE  HAUNTS   OF 
WALT   WHITMAN 


Cam  Jen—  The  Ferry—  Whitman's  Comrades—  Where  his  Mo- 
ther Ditd— Stevens  Street  —  Eminent  Visitors  — Mickle 
Street  House  — Poefs  Chamber  and  Associations  — Poems- 
Relics  —  Timber  Creek— Whitman' s  Resorts  in  Field  and 
Wood -His  Funeral -His  Tomb. 

T  TQWEVER  widely  opinions  concerning  Walt 
•*•  •*•  Whitman  may  differ,  he  cannot  be  ignored ; 
whether  we  esteem  him  a  poet  and  seer,  or  a 
shameless  charlatan,  we  cannot  deny  to  him  a 
prominent  place  in  American  literature.  The  re- 
vilings  of  the  multitude  for  whom  his  utterances 
contained  no  tidings,  and  the  superlative  encomiums 
of  the  lesser  number,  who,  like  Tennyson,  thought 
him  one  of  the  greatest  of  contemporary  poets,  or, 
like  Emerson,  found  his  work  "the  most  extraor- 
dinary piece  of  wit  and  wisdom  that  America  had 
yet  contributed,"  serve  to  invest  the  daring  writer 
with  a  peculiar  interest,  and  to  render  the  spots 
once  associated  with  his  presence  and  poems  places 
of  curious  attention  or  of  veritable  pilgrimage. 
Some  of  the  scenes  of  his  youth  and  young  man- 
hood have  been  sketched  in  a  previous  booklet  of 
these  papers.1 

!See  "A  Long  Island  Ramble"  in  "Literary  Haunts  and 
Homes  of  American  Authors." 

85 


Literary  Rambles 

The  circumstances  of  his  later  life,  the  bravely- 
borne  sufferings  of  his  last  years,  and  the  splendid 
optimism  which  illuminates  his  poetic  productions 
of  that  period  have  imparted  to  his  haunts  and  habi- 
tations of  that  later  time  an  element  of  especial 
regard  in  the  estimation  of  those  who  have  loved 
the  poet  and  perceived  his  message.  Most  of  these 
shrines  lie  near  his  own  "placid  Delaware'*  and 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Philadelphia.  One  of  the 
many  confessed  "  Whitmaniacs "  is  our  conductor 
and  companion  in  repeated  pilgrimages  to  the  places 
where  he  had  known  the  good  gray  poet.  The 
broad  Delaware  is  itself  a  reminder  of  Whitman; 
its  flowing  tides,  its  varying  phases  of  surface,  its 
reflections  of  fleckless  light,  of  drifting  clouds,  of 
golden  haze,  of  starlit  heaven  were  all  noted  by 
him  as  he  <f  cross 'd  and  cross' d"  upon  the  ferry. 
Here  for  hours  together  he  haunted  the  boats,  chat- 
ting with  the  boatmen  or  mutely  observing  the  pas- 
sengers, the  moving  river-craft,  the  flying  birds,  the 
"fluid  shadows,"  the  changing  sky;  or,  more  often, 
in  the  silent  hours  of"  full-starr'd,  blue-black  night," 
pacing  the  deck  alone,  communing  with  the  water, 
the  air,  the  heaven — objects  that  "speak  no  word, 
nothing  to  the  intellect,  yet  so  eloquent,  so  com- 
municative to  the  soul."  How  far  these  objects 
affected  his  muse,  or  how  much  of  his  devout  and 
optimistic  master-verse  was  here  begotten  of  the 
86 


Cam  den  Ferry  and  Ferrymen 

contemplations  such  objects  inspired,  we  may  never 
know. 

Some  of  these  river  sights  and  scenes  he  depicted 
in  the  graphic  prose  of  his  "Specimen  Days," 
which  Dr.  Bucke  has  called  "the  brightest  and 
halest  '  Diary  of  an  Invalid '  ever  written" ;  the  same 
pages  bear  loving  testimony  to  the  friendliness  of  the 
ferrymen,  and  the  tonic  and  healthful  influence  upon 
the  poet  of  their  "hardy  ways."  It  chances  that 
we  cross  the  river  upon  the  Wenonab,  the  craft 
which,  as  "the  new  ferry-boat,"  Whitman  cele- 
brated as  a  "  perfect  creation  of  beauty  and  motion 
and  power";  and  we  find  in  Camden  more  than 
one  of  the  poet's  "ferry-friends,"  whom  he  men- 
tioned by  name  in  "Specimen  Days,"  who,  with 
evident  enjoyment,  recount  incidents  of  his  many 
excursions  with  them  upon  the  river  and  exhibit 
the  few  simple  articles  that  were  his  gifts. 

In  Camden  streets  and  shops  we  meet  many  who 
for  years  had  daily  greeted  the  venerable  poet  as, 
with  leonine  head  crowned  with  silvery  hair,  with 
ruddy,  bearded  and  benignant  face,  with  stout, 
broad-shouldered  figure  clad  in  well-worn  garb  of 
gray,  with  snowy  linen  open  at  the  throat,  with  a 
friendly  nod  of  recognition  and  a  deep-voiced  salu- 
tation for  every  one,  he  slowly  limped  along  the 
sidewalk,  or  drove  his  horse  and  buggy — the  gift 
of  a  circle  of  admirers  —  or,  later,  was  wheeled  in 

87 


Literary  Rambles 

his  chair  by  his  trusty  attendant,  Warren  Fritzinger. 
"Warry"  is  dead  and  Whitman's  chair  now  is 
the  valued  possession  of  his  next-door  neighbor, 
upon  an  invalid  member  of  whose  family  the  poet 
bestowed  it  when  his  own  increasing  illness  forbade 
his  using  it  more. 

An  unpretentious  dwelling  in  Stevens  Street — a 
neat  and  quiet  thoroughfare  leading  back  from  the 
river — was  for  a  time  the  home  of  Colonel  George 
Whitman,  the  brother  whose  wounds — received  at 
Fredericksburg  —  first  drew  the  poet  to  the  seat  of 
war  and  led  to  the  beneficent  and  self-sacrificing 
hospital  labors  to  which  we  owe  such  poems  as 
"The  Wound-Dresser"  and  "A  March  in  the 
Ranks  Hard-press' d,"  and  the  thrilling  and  im- 
pressive records  of  his  "Memoranda  of  the  War." 
In  this  house  Whitman  witnessed  the  death  of  his 
adored  mother,  that  "sweetest  and  best  woman" 
to  whose  memory  he  wrote  long  years  afterward  in 
"As  at  thy  Portals  also,  Death": 

"  To  her,  buried  and  gone,  yet  buried  not,  gone  not  from  me, 

(I  see  again  the  calm  face,  fresh  and  beautiful  still;) 

To  her,  the  ideal  woman,  practical,  spiritual,   of  all  of  earth, 

life,  love,  to  me  the  best, 
I  grave  a  monumental  line,  before  I  go." 

A  newer  house  a  block  or  so  above  upon  the  same 
thoroughfare  became  a  little  later  the  residence  of 
Colonel  Whitman,  and,  the  poet's  physical  prostration 
88 


Whitman  in  Stevens  Street 

having  been  completed  by  the  shock  of  his  mother's 
death,  he  relinquished  his  post  at  Washington  and 
was  brought  here  —  to  die,  as  he  supposed.  In  the 
long  dark  years  that  followed,  his  hope,  health  and 
finances  were  at  their  lowest  ebb,  but  after  a  period 
of  pain  and  isolation,  patiently  endured  "amid  the 
nearness  and  the  silent  thought  of  death,"  he  slowly 
attained  to  that  condition  of  half-health  of  which  he 
so  often  spoke,  and — "old,  poor  and  paralyzed" — 
lived  on. 

We  find  this  dwelling  numbered  four  hundred  and 
thirty-one,  a  neat  and  modest  fabric  of  red  brick, 
with  white  stone  steps  and  lintels,  and  with  a  French 
window  at  the  side,  still  owned  by  Whitman's 
younger  brother  but  no  longer  occupied  by  him, 
and  nowise  changed  since  the  poet  was  here  an  in- 
mate. Two  stalwart  maples  grow  by  the  curbstone 
in  front,  and  old  residents  of  the  neighborhood  re- 
member Whitman,  with  his  antique  Greek  face  and 
snowy  beard,  as  he  sat  upon  the  doorstep  in  the 
shade  of  these  trees,  chatting  with  his  friends  and 
cordially  greeting  each  passer. 

The  pleasant  back  room  of  the  third  floor  was 
occupied  by  the  poet  during  most  of  the  ten  years 
of  his  stay  beneath  this  roof,  and  here  some  of  the 
literary  labor  of  those  years  was  accomplished,  his 
completed  manuscript  being  carefully  composed  from 
memoranda  penciled  in  home-made  note-books 
89 


Literary  Rambles 

wherever  the  ideas  came  to  him,  upon  the  ferry-boats, 
by  the  seashore,  on  the  street,  in  the  woods  and 
fields.  To  this  period  belong,  among  other  works, 
the  pregnant  and  luminous  prose  of  "Specimen 
Days,"  the  devout  stanzas  of  "The  Prayer  of 
Columbus,"  with  other  poems  of  "  From  Noon  to 
Starry  Night,"  and  the  complete  revision  of  "  Leaves 
of  Grass,"  the  book  in  whose  candid  and  passionate 
utterances  some  have  found  a  new  gospel  that 
would  "take  the  shame  from  birth,"  as  well  as  "the 
crape  from  death,"  and  regenerate  mankind.  In  the 
little  sitting-room  at  the  left  of  the  entrance  hall  oc- 
curred the  first  interview  between  Whitman  and  his 
biographer,  Dr.  Bucke.  To  the  poet  here  came  such 
visitors  as  Longfellow,  Burroughs,  Colonel  Forney, 
Lord  Houghton,  and  appreciative  messages  of  greet- 
ing and  cheer  from  Emerson,  Ruskin,  Rossetti, 
Tennyson,  Swinburne,  Conway,  Buchanan,  Edwin 
Arnold,  Justin  H.  McCarthy,  Joaquin  Miller,  John 
Addington  Symonds  and  other  approving  friends. 

In  1883  Colonel  Whitman  removed  from  Camden 
and  the  poet  came  into  possession  of  the  residence 
which  is  most  commonly  associated  with  his  name 
and  fame.  It  stands  in  the  next  (Mickle)  street,  but 
a  little  way  from  the  humble  tenement  in  which 
Mrs.  Howarth  ("Clementine")  wrote  the  tender 
lyric  "'Tis  But  a  Little  Faded  Flower,"  and  not 
much  farther  from  the  old  two-storied,  dormer-win- 
90 


Whitman's  "Shanty" — Mickle  Street 

dowed  brick  cottage  where  Audubon  dwelt  for  a 
time  while  making  some  of  the  excursions  and  re- 
searches upon  which  his  journals  and  sketches  were 
founded.  Mickle  is  a  street  of  small  and  unpreten- 
tious dwellings,  with  brick  sidewalks  and  rude  cob- 
blestone pavement,  resonant  this  summer  morning 
with  the  cries  of  venders  and  the  clatter  of  jolting 
carts.  Whitman's  "shanty"  (as  he  called  it),  the 
little  two-storied,  box-like  fabric  of  six  rooms  now 
numbered  three  hundred  and  thirty,  is  one  of  the 
humbler  dwellings  of  the  neighborhood,  and,  ex- 
teriorly, is  scarcely  changed  since  we  visited  him 
here: l  a  few  long-needed  repairs  have  been  made 
and  the  front  has  been  painted,  but  the  weather-worn 
boards,  the  old  shutters  and  doors,  and  the  prevail- 
ing aspect  of  dejection  so  familiar  to  the  poet's 
friends  remain. 

The  house  is  still  owned  by  his  estate  and  his 
name  is  upon  the  marble  stepping-stone  at  the  curb, 
but  the  gentle-faced  Mary  Davis — Whitman's 
"good,  faithful  Jersey  woman" — who  used  to  open 
the  door  to  visitors  is  succeeded  by  one  who  expects 
a  fee  for  showing  the  place,  and  the  once  sacred 
rooms,  so  long  the  dwelling-place  of  the  venerable 
bard,  have  since  been  profaned  by  lodgers.  In  the 
one  apartment  which  was  peculiarly  Whitman's  own, 
the  large  front  chamber  which  was  his  sleeping -room, 
'  See  "Literary  Shrines." 
9' 


Literary  Rambles 

his  workshop  and  the  store-house  for  the  literary 
collections  of  his  lifetime,  the  changes  are  most 
obvious.  The  mass  of  books,  papers,  magazines  and 
manuscripts  which  used  to  fill  the  tables,  chairs, 
trunks  and  cases  and  to  overflow  upon  the  floor, 
have  been  removed  by  his  literary  executors;  the 
portraits  and  some  other  articles  are  in  possession  of 
his  brother  at  Burlington,  New  Jersey;  Mrs.  Davis 
has  removed  other  effects  which  belonged  to  her,  and 
one  table  which  no  one,  apparently,  thought  worth 
taking  away  has  been  exposed  in  the  yard. 

This  poor  place  was  for  nine  years  the  abode  of 
him  who  has  been  called  one  of  the  world's  immor- 
tals. Here, 

"A  batter'd,  wreck' d  old  man," 

dependent  mainly  upon  the  support  of  transatlantic 
admirers,  he  lived  in  poverty,  much  of  the  time  in 
corporal  suffering, — "cheerfully  borne  when  cheer 
was  possible  and  patiently  when  cheer  became  im- 
possible,"—  unaffected  by  derision,  unembittered  by 
abuse,  never  losing  faith  in  his  daring  ideals  nor  in 
the  great  American  humanity  which  he  chanted. 

The  low-studded  chamber  seems  poor  and  com- 
monplace, yet  it  has  held  some  of  earth's  shining 
ones,  who  bore  to  its  occupant  their  contributions  of 
honor  and  praise,  and  to  it  have  come,  as  pilgrims 
to  a  fane,  visitors  from  every  part  of  our  own  coun- 
92 


Whitman's  Workshop  and  Works 

try  and  from  lands  beyond  the  sea.  Here,  during  the 
lulls  of  physical  pain,  was  done  much  of  the  indoor 
work  of  Whitman's  last  years,  the  years  in  which  he 
gave  to  the  world  the  poems  of  "  Sands  at  Seventy," 
"Good-Bye,  My  Fancy,"  "Old  Age  Echoes," 
with  their  effulgence  of  faith,  and  his  swan-song 
with  its  affectionate  greeting  to  Death,  that 

"holiest  minister  of  Heaven  —  envoy,  usherer,  guide 

at  last  of  all, 

Rich,  florid  loosener  of  the  stricture-knot  called  life, 
Sweet,  peaceful,  welcome  Death." 

Such  poems,  written  within  the  mystic  borderland 
of  the  unknown,  fitly  concluded  his  epic,  '  *  Leaves 
of  Grass ' ' ;  with  its  completion  he  deemed  his  life- 
work  done  and  fearlessly  turned  his  face  toward  the 
shoreless  sea.  In  this  room  he  sank  in  mortal  illness, 
slowly  dying  through  long  months,  and  here  finally 
was  effectuated  his  "Last  Invocation." 

"  At  the  last,  tenderly  .   .    . 

Let  me  be  wafted, 

Let  me  glide  noiselessly  forth  ; 

With  the  key  of  softness  unlock  the  locks  —  with  a  whisper 

Set  ope  the  doors,  O  soul." 

Those  who  knew  this  chamber  ere  it  was  de- 
prived of  the  presence  which  illumined  it  will  love 
to  recall  its  arrangement  and  associations.  Just  here 
stood  his  large  table  with  its  array  of  books  and 
papers;  here  is  the  place  of  his  heavy-timbered  arm- 

93 


Literary  Rambles 

chair,  with  its  ratan  seat  and  great  wolf-skin  robe;  on 
this  side  stood  the  old-fashioned  wood-stove;  by  yon- 
der front  window  was  his  favorite  nook  where  he  sat 
to  look  out  upon  the  street,  to  play  with  his  pets  or  to 
write  upon  his  knee  with  the  pencil  or  huge  Falcon 
pen  kept  upon  the  window-ledge;  by  yonder  wall 
was  the  white-counterpaned  bed  on  which  he  lan- 
guished and  died.  In  the  cheerless  little  back  parlor 
the  dead  poet  lay  in  his  massive  oaken  casket,  while 
thronging  thousands  filed  slowly  past  to  look  for  the 
last  time  upon  his  countenance. 

A  near-by  street  now  holds  the  simple  home  of 
Mrs.  Davis,  the  "Jersey  woman"  who  so  long 
"took  vigilant  care  of"  the  poet,  as  he  gratefully 
testified,  where  the  visitor  may  see  many  reminders 
of  him,  the  plaster  cast  of  his  head,  made  two  years 
before  his  death,  and  most  of  the  effects  which  fur- 
nished his  Mickle  Street  dwelling — including  his 
bedstead  and  the  chair  in  which  he  last  sat.  But  a 
little  farther  away  lives  Horace  L.  Traubel,  for  years 
Whitman's  intimate  friend  and  assistant  and  now  one 
of  his  literary  executors,  who  affectionately  preserves 
numerous  priceless  mementos  of  this  poet  of  democ- 
racy,— among  them  being  the  old  and  worn  haver- 
sack which,  in  his  " Drum-Taps"  days,  Whitman 
carried  on  his  devoted  rounds  among  the  hospitals 
and  which  has  held  thousands  of  needed  gifts  and 
comforts  for  sick  and  dying  heroes;  in  Traubel' s 

94 


Relics — Reminiscences 

hands,  too,  we  see  the  poet's  own  soiled  and 
tattered  copy  of  the  original  edition  of  "Leaves  of 
Grass,"  with  its  many  marginal  notes  and  oft-cor- 
rected memoranda  in  his  careful  chirography. 

A  lonely  farm  on  Timber  Creek,  some  miles 
distant  from  Whitman's  home,  was  during  many 
years  his  sanitarium  and  best  beloved  retreat.  To 
its  restful  seclusion  he  resorted  in  all  seasons  and 
often  for  long  periods,  to  spend  "dear,  soothing, 
healthy  restoration-hours  ' '  in  solitary  saunterings 
among  the  fields  and  woods.  Here,  where  he  was 
close  to  nature  and  thoroughly  en  rapport  with  her 
moods,  some  of  his  idyllic  canticles  were  conceived, 
and  pages  of  "  Specimen  Days"  and  "November 
Boughs  ' '  were  written  amid  the  rural  charms  which 
animated  them  and  the  scenes  those  pages  picture. 

The  place  is  a  solitude  no  longer  ;  its  whole  at- 
mosphere and  environment  are  changed.  The 
household  with  whom  Whitman  dwelt  are  dead  or 
scattered,  the  farm-house  is  overshadowed  by  new 
and  pretentious  dwellings, —  one  of  which  en- 
croaches upon  its  yard, —  the  adjacent  fields  are 
traversed  by  streets  and  divided  into  building- 
plots,  and  a  town  is  planned  and  partly  built  about 
Whitman's  whilom  haunts.  His  "hobby-liking," 
the  long  farm  lane,  fenced  with  old  rails  "  green 
with  dabs  of  moss,"  where  he  used  to  walk  with 
labored  pace  and  breathe  the  honey-scent  of  the 

95 


Literary  Rambles 

buckwheat  or  the  subtler  perfume  of  the  growing 
maize,  is  now  expanded  into  an  ambitious  village 
"  avenue  ";  the  adjoining  field  of  his  sketch, "Gath- 
ering the  Corn,"  is  the  site  of  several  houses  ; 
other  dwellings  occupy  the  once  grassy  upland  in- 
closure  at  the  end  of  the  lane  to  which  he  resorted 
in  the  "  miracle-hours  "  after  sunsetting,  when  the 
heavens  declared  the  glory  of  God  and  the  view 
"  calmed  and  exalted  his  soul  beyond  description." 
But  many  more  of  his  haunts  remain  here  undis- 
turbed or  undestroyed.  Of  these  Whitman's 
descriptions  are  so  vivid  that  we  scarce  require  the 
guidance  of  his  friend  in  our  quest  for  them  :  the 
course  of  a  lingering  stroll,  made  on  a  spotiess, 
odor-laden  summer  morning  which  would  have 
delighted  the  heart  of  the  aged  minstrel,  discovers 
them  all.  The  spring  ceaselessly  gurgling  under 
the  willows — "  musical  as  soft-clinking  glasses  " — 
where  he  sat  in  sultry  afternoons  ;  the  wild  dell  of 
his  Adamic  sun-baths,  whose  recesses  " he  and 
certain  thrushes  and  catbirds  had  all  to  themselves  " 
in  many  a  summer  hour  ;  his  lounges  by  the  pond 
where  he  sometimes  "idled  deliciously  "  far  into 
the  night  ;  his  favorite  trees  —  the  great  oak, 
"sturdy,  vital,  green,"  beneath  which  he  often  sat 
to  write,  and  that  "Apollo  of  the  woods"  the 
near-by  tulip  tree,  "  tall  and  graceful,  yet  robust 
and  sinewy,  as  if  the  beauteous  leafy  creature  could 
96 


Timber  Creek  Haunts 

walk  ifit  only  would" — the  trees  that  once,  in  the 
fancy  of  the  poet,  promenaded  the  turf,  leaning 
down  to  whisper  to  him  as  they  passed,  "  We  do 
all  this  exceptionally,  just  for  you." 

We  follow  the  wooded  windings  of  the  brook 
upon  whose  banks  he  loved  to  linger,  soothed  and 
inspirited  by  the  murmur  of  waters  and  the  bravuras 
of  birds  —  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the  "warm, 
indolent,  half- voluptuous  silence."  We  explore 
the  recesses  of  his  grove,  which  ' «  the  Albic  Druids 
might  have  chosen,"  and  find  there  and  in  the 
cool  depths  of  the  farther  wood  the  retreats  to 
which  he  came  bearing  his  portable  chair  to  sit  — 
"absorbing,  enjoying  all" — as  he  "read  and  fil- 
tered" his  favorite  authors,  or  wrote  with  the  leaf- 
shadowf  quivering  upon  his  page.  We  tarry  long 
in  silent  thought  in  the  wild,  free  place  of  his  daily 
haunt,  where  the  poet  and  seer  so  often  mused  on 
his  ' '  sane  or  sick  spirit,  here  as  near  at  peace  as  it 
could  be,''  and  where  we  would  fain  have  made 
his  grave  when  that  spirit  had,  beyond  death's  por- 
tal, attained  to  perfect  peace  — 

"The  untold  want,  by  life  ne'er  granted."' 

Harieigh  Cemetery,  a  mile  or  so  outside  of 
Camden,  is  the  place  Whitman  selected  tor  his 
burial.  On  a  steep  hillside  clothed  by  natural 

G  97 


Literary  Rambles 

forest  trees  —  oaks,  beeches,  and  hickories  —  he 
prepared  his  sepulcher,  designing  it  himself,  and 
coming  frequently,  until  cumulative  imnrmities  pre- 
vented, to  supervise  the  work  of  construction, 
which  was  completed  but  a  little  time  before  his 
death. 

To  this  spot,  chosen  by  the  bard  because,  as  he 
said,  he  wished  "  to  go  into  the  woods,"  his  mor- 
tal part  was  brought  one  bright  day  of  March, 
seventy-three  years  after  that  other  spring  day 
when,  in  his  own  loved  "lilac-time,"  he  came 
into  the  world.  The  coffined  body  was  borne  by 
friends  and  literary  associates  and  followed  by 
thousands  of  that  vast  multitude  of  the  "common 
people ' '  his  song  exalted  and  glorified,  who  stood 
under  the  whispering  trees  about  his  tomb  and 
listened  to  tender  and  eloquent  words  of  eulogy,  to 
excerpts  from  his  own  grand  utterances,  and  saw 
him  given  back  to  "  nature's  clasp  and  kiss." 

From  the  cemetery  entrance  a  drive  dappied 
with  leafy  shadows  winds  through  the  woods  to  the 
left,  and  conducts  us  to  Whitman's  resting-place. 
It  is  a  capacious  vault  of  ponderous,  rough-tooled 
blocks  of  granite,  surmounted  by  a  triangular  mass, 
weighing  several  tons,  which  is  graven  with  his 
name.  The  massive  stone  door  stands  ajar  and 
through  it  we  see  the  sealed  crypts  which  contain 
the  ashes  of  the  poet  and  of  some  of  his  "kindred  — 
98 


imbles 

beeches,   and   hickories  —  he 

lesigning  it  himself,  and 

iative  imfirmiries  pre- 

<    the    work    of  construction, 

little  time  before  his 

the  bard  because,  as  he 
>ro  the  woods,"  his  mor- 

ijgbt  ooe  Bright    day    of   M 
an    at.tr    i  h*t    other    spring 
!«,"   he 
•    rojftdc 


:'  his  soi- 

the   vvh:  •:•* 
itstcned  to 

excerpts  from  h«  c  utterances,  and   saw 
him  given                    niiture's  clasp  and  kiss." 

From   tf  .trance    a   drive   dtppied 

with  k»fy  jiifci-  ;  s  through  the  wood*  to  the 
left,  and  rondu*  u    .:»  o>  Whitman's   resung-pbce. 

It  is  a  Jiderous,    rough  -tooled 

•  of  gn»t;-;  v  a  triangular  imM»» 

weiglr  is    gWVer 

name.     THe  m  «  dear    sctmi*  ai* 

through  it  we  -  ottin 

the  ashes  of  th-  •/  •«•»«  of  his  \indred  — 


The  Poet's  Grave 

his  parents,  a  brother,  a  brother's  wife  and  her  child, 
and  the  little  Walt  Whitman  that  died  in  infancy. 

Beyond  the  trees  we  have  glimpses  of  more 
artificial  portions  of  the  cemetery,  with  smooth- 
shaven  sward  and  ornate  memorials,  but  in  this 
spot  where  the  poet  lies  is  preserved  something  of 
the  primitive  naturalness  in  which  he  delighted. 
Creeping  vines  and  leafy  boughs  closely  invest  the 
vault,  tall  trees  tower  above  it,  and  one  graceful 
hickory,  which  was  saved  from  destruction  by  the 
interposition  of  the  poet,  now  drops  its  heavy  fruit 
at  the  fern-bordered  threshold  of  his  tomb. 

As  we  linger  amid  the  sweet  wood-smells  we 
see,  through  the  swaying  foliage,  the  glint  of  blue 
sky  overhead,  the  shimmer  of  near-by  waters, 
shadowy  vistas  of  sylvan  beauty  on  every  hand,  we 
hear  the  murmur  of  soft  winds  in  the  tree-tops,  the 
chatter  of  squirrels,  the  liquid  music  of  birds,  the 
shrill  song  of  cicadas  —  all  sights  and  sounds  of 
sweet  summer  time.  We  tarry  until  other  visitors 
come  bringing  chaplets  of  wild-flowers  to  deck  the 
vault,  then  we  pluck  as  a  memento  a  single  frond 
from  the  ferns  that  grow  beside  the  portal  and 
slowly  go  out  from  the  place,  pausing  to  look  back 
from  a  turn  in  the  path  and  repeat  the  lines  of 
Stedman's  farewell  to  the  hoar  and  reverend 
chanter  : 

"  Good-bye,  old  Walt,  good-bye  ! " 

99 


A  LITERARY  PILGRIMAGE  BY 
THE   DELAWARE 


Cooper'' s  Ancestors  —  Birthplace  —  Burlington  —  Dr.  English  — 
F.-ank  R.  Stockton  — Bordentotvn  — Hopkinson  — Paine  — 
Gilder  -  Trenton  -  Where  Dr.  Abbott  Lives  and  Writes 
—His  Habits  of  Composition  —  Places  of  Discoveries  and 
Sketches  —  Scenes  of  Fiction  —  "  Clementine  "  Hoivarth. 

t  I  "*HE  region  of  the  lower  Delaware,  where  our 
•*•  Whitman  pilgrimages  terminate  at  his  sepul- 
cher,  holds  other  shrines  which  appeal  to  the 
bookish  wayfarer.  Journeying  northward  from 
the  Quaker  City,  we  find  beyond  disfiguring  fac- 
tories the  broad  river  flowing  between  low-lying 
banks  of  green,  or,  farther,  at  the  base  of  picturesque 
bluffs. 

Both  plain  and  upland  are  diversified  by  sun- 
kissed  fields  and  heavy-tinted  copses,  and  dotted  by 
villas,  villages,  and  farmsteads,  among  which  are  a 
few  favored  spots  whose  beauties  have  for  us  the 
additional  charm  which  literary  associations  impart. 

Several  miles  of  the  New  Jersey  bank  were  the 
original  possession  of  the  immigrant  ancestors  of 
James  Fenimore  Cooper,  and  at  Beverly  is  the 
place  of  the  homestead  in  which  was  born  and 
reared  the  Elizabeth  Fenimore  who  became  the 
wife  of  William  Cooper  and  the  mother  of  the 
great  pioneer  of  American  fiction.  To  this  home 
loo 


Birthplace  of  Cooper 

she  returned,  in  the  infancy  of  the  future  novelist, 
to  remain  during  some  portion  of  the  time  while 
her  husband,  who  had  failed  in  a  commercial  ven- 
ture near  by,  was  preparing  a  dwelling  for  his 
family  in  the  then  unbroken  wilderness  of  Otsego  — 
the  region  which  the  genius  of  his  son  afterward 
peopled  with  the  creations  of  fancy  and  clothed 
with  the  witchery  of  fiction. 

We  see  in  the  shaded  streets  of  the  historic  old 
river-town  of  Burlington,  three  miles  distant,  the 
birthplace  of  one  who  has  rendered  the  name  of 
Cooper  illustrious.  In  a  staid  and  comfortable 
dwelling,  which  was  among  the  best  the  town 
afforded  and  then  stood  in  the  outskirts, —  "the 
last  house  but  one  as  you  go  into  the  country,"  — 
James  Fenimore  Cooper  first  opened  his  eyes  to  the 
light  September  15,  1789.  We  find  the  domicile 
still  remaining,  a  sober,  quaint,  two-storied  fabric 
of  stuccoed  brick,  now  numbered  457,  on  Main 
Street.  It  is  of  moderate  size  and  stands  close 
upon  the  sidewalk,  its  front  shaded  by  tall  trees 
which  grow  at  the  curbstone  and  overhang  the 
sloping  roofs.  The  similar  dwelling  next  door  was 
then  the  residence  of  the  father  of  the  naval  hero, 
Captain  James  Lawrence,  with  whom  Cooper 
sailed  as  a  subaltern  officer  of  the  Wasp  in  1809, 
upon  one  of  the  voyages  which  gave  to  the  latter 
101 


Literary  Rambles 

that  intimate  knowledge  of  seamanship  afterward 
displayed  in  "The  Pilot,"  "Red  Rover,"  and 
other  thrilling  tales  of  the  ocean. 

Not  far  away  lived  an  eccentric  individual  named 
Sorsby,  who  has  been  believed  to  be  the  original 
of  one  of  the  principal  personages  in  Cooper' s  novel 
of  "The  Pioneers";  it  is  remembered  of  him  that 
the  trait  most  prominent  in  the  character  of  which 
he  was  the  alleged  prototype  eventually  wrought  his 
ruin,  and  he  died  a  pauper  in  the  county  almshouse. 
In  an  ancient  edifice  nearer  the  river  on  the  same 
street  the  father  of  the  novelist  was,  before  his  son's 
birth,  engaged  in  mercantile  pursuits,  and  it  is  to 
the  failure  of  this  merchandising  that  we  are  in- 
debted for  Cooper's  introduction  to  the  scene  of  so 
much  of  his  best  fiction. 

Upon  a  corner  of  near-by  York  Street  stands  the 
plain  old  brick  school-house  where,  seven  decades 
ago,  Thomas  Dunn  English  —  since  famous  as  the 
author  of  "Ben  Bolt"  and  of  hundreds  of  better 
but  less  popular  poems  —  was  for  some  years  a 
pupil;  here  he  made  a  survey  map  of  this  ancient 
town,  which  was  the  pride  and  delight  of  his  master. 

The  Stocktons  were  among  the  early  settlers  of 
Burlington.  A  pretty,  vine-embowered  dwelling, 
locally  known  as  "Ivy  Cottage,"  and  standing  a 
little  back  from  the  corner  of  Main  and  Pearl 
Streets,  a  short  block  from  the  riverside,  was  once 

102 


English — Stockton — Bordentown 

the  abode  of  the  now  renowned  writer  of  "  Rudder 
Grange"  and  many  other  inimitable  books.  To 
this  homelet,  which  aforetime  had  been  the  resi- 
dence of  the  gallant  Lawrence,  of  the  Chesapeake, 
Stockton  came  with  his  bride  nearly  forty  years  ago, 
and  here  he  produced  some  of  his  first  literary  work, 
including  "The  Story  of  Champaigne,"  which 
was  published  in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger 
during  the  Civil  War.  The  cottage  has  been  reno- 
vated and  now  stands  shorn  of  its  picturesque  fea- 
tures, a  plain  and  bare  box  of  rough-cast  brick.  A 
modest  home  at  the  end  of  Greenbank  also  was  for 
a  time  occupied  by  the  future  propounder  of  that 
classic  conundrum,  "The  Lady  or  the  Tiger?" 
Horn  is  a  rather  common  cognomen  in  this  vicin- 
age, and  it  has  been  surmised  that  this  appellation 
was  remembered  by  the  author  when,  long  years 
afterward,  he  named  the  heroic  captain  in  the  ex- 
citing tale  of  '« Adventures."  At  Juliustown,  in  the 
same  county,  Joshua  R.  Lippincott,  the  founder  of 
the  great  Philadelphia  publishing  house,  was  born. 

Ten  miles  beyond  Burlington  the  bluff  river- 
bank  is  crowned  by  the  storied  village  of  Borden- 
town, in  the  shade  and  quiet  of  whose  quaint  old 
streets  the  sentimental  tourist  will  be  tempted  to 
tarry.  Here  are  prim  dwellings  whose  air  of  dig- 
nified sobriety  belongs  to  a  century  older  than  ours, 
houses  which  have  harbored  historic  personages, 
103 


Literary  Rambles 

homes  and  haunts  of  literators.  One  stately  Colo- 
nial mansion,  standing  at  a  corner  of  the  olden 
Main  Street,  erstwhile  was  the  domicile  of  Francis 
Hopkinson,  who  here  wrote  his  "  harmonious 
ditty  "  of  the  "  Battle  of  the  Kegs  "  and  other  less 
popular  verse.  Later  the  house  became  the  heri- 
tage of  his  son,  Joseph  Hopkinson,  author  of  the 
stirring  stanzas  of  «<  Hail,  Columbia,"  who  dwelt 
here  with  his  wife,  the  beautiful  belle  to  whom 
"  Anacreon "  Moore  addressed  his  sentimental 
"  Lines  written  on  Leaving  Philadelphia."  Save 
for  the  substitution  of  a  mansard  for  the  ancient 
sloping  roof  the  mansion  remains  substantially  un- 
changed, and  is  now  the  property  of  the  son  and 
the  home  of  the  granddaughter  of  Judge  Hopkinson. 
In  a  commodious  dwelling  near  the  verge  of  the 
steep  bluff  Thomas  Paine,  the  once  famoue  writer 
of  "  Common  Sense,"  was  often  the  esteemed 
guest  of  his  friend,  Colonel  Kirkbride,  and  the 
corner  room  above  the  parlor  at  the  left  of  the  en- 
trance was  occupied  by  him  for  months  at  a  time. 
In  those  days  Paine  was  "the  honored  man"  of 
the  place,  in  friendly  correspondence  with  Washing- 
ton and  other  Revolutionary  leaders ;  mounted 
upon  his  horse,  "Button,"  he  was  almost  daily 
seen  riding  in  the  village  streets  or  through  the 
shady  lanes  of  the  near  countryside.  This  Kirk- 
bride  house  forms  now  a  part  of  a  "  Female  Col- 
104 


Hopkinson — Paine — The  Gilders 

lege,"  and  the  site  of  the  smaller  house,  in  its 
"  two  tenths  of  an  acre  "  of  garden,  which  Paine 
later  owned  and  occupied  for  several  years,  and 
where  he  did  some  of  his  less  important  literary 
work,  has  been  overbuilt  by  a  store  and  dwelling. 
The  latter  is  now  inhabited  by  the  daughter  of  an 
admirer  of  Paine,  who  purchased  the  place  from 
that  author  early  in  the  nineteenth  century. 

Park  Street  sometime  led  to  the  park  and  palace 
of  Joseph  Bonaparte,  once  King  of  Spain,  and  upon 
this  thoroughfare  we  still  see  the  long,  low,  strag- 
gling structure  which  was  the  dwelling  of  Prince 
Lucien  Murat  (nephew  of  Napoleon),  where  his 
accomplished  wife  conducted  a  school  for  girls. 

The  Gilders  have  long  been  associated  with  this 
old  town,  which  holds  the  birthplace  of  at  least 
one  eminent  member  of  that  family.  Above  a 
century  has  elapsed  since  an  ancestor  of  the  present 
trio  of  editors  and  writers  erected,  a  half-mile  out 
upon  the  Crosswicks  road,  the  home  in  which  the 
poet  Richard  Watson  Gilder  was  born  fifty-five 
years  ago.  This  is  "The  Homestead"  he  cele- 
brated in  the  poem  written  here.  The  house  is  a 
large,  old-fashioned  mansion,  with  dormer  windows 
in  its  sloping  roofs  and  with  a  wing  projecting 
from  one  of  its  sides  ;  its  rooms  have  wide  fire- 
places and  are  furnished  forth  with  quaint  and 
handsome  heirlooms,  the  prized  possessions  of  pre- 
105 


Literary  Rambles 

vious  generations.  Environing  the  dwelling  are 
generous  gardens  and  grounds  where  we  see  the 
"white  lilacs  and  the  button  woods,"  the  "stark 
poplars,"  the  "pine  groves,"  the  "threading 
brook"  of  Gilder's  lyric;  yonder  little  mead, 
through  which  the  "  slow  stream  curves  and 
dallies,"  is  that  dreamful  resort  of  his  boyhood,  the 
least  of  the  "Two  Valleys"  of  his  "Great  Re- 
membrance ' '  volume.  The  patriarchal  trees  which 
grow  by  the  house  should  be  honored  as  the  theme 
of  the  poet's  earliest  stanzas.  "  Bellevue,"  as  the 
place  is  called,  is  still  owned  by  the  family ;  the 
poet  now  comes  to  it  only  as  an  occasional  visitor, 
but  the  popular  "  Lounger"  and  the  co-editors  of 
The  Critic,  Jeannette  and  Joseph  Gilder,  occupy 
it  some  part  of  each  year. 

From  Bordentown  the  grounds  which  constituted 
ex-King  Bonaparte's  park  extend  several  furlongs 
northward  along  the  wood-crowned  bluff;  farther 
lie  broad  acres  once  tilled  by  the  English- Quaker 
progenitors  of  Dr.  Charles  Conrad  Abbott ;  beyond 
those  and  nearer  to  Trenton  we  find  the  ancestral 
home  of  that  skilled  naturalist,  astute  archasologist, 
and  versatile  author.  To  visit  him  here  among  his 
own  "uplands  and  meadows,"  where  most  of  his 
life  has  been  passed  and  most  of  his  work  has  been 
done,  is  the  predominant  purpose  of  this  pilgrimage 
along  the  Delaware. 

1 06 


Home  of  Doctor  Abbott 

From  the  Trenton  road  a  lane  leads,  between 
sunny  fields  and  beneath  overhanging  maples  and 
apple  trees,  to  the  mansion  we  seek.  It  is  set 
upon  a  grassy  eminence,  a  semicircle  of  sighing 
pines  stand  guard  at  the  back,  and  upon  every  side 
tower  foliaged  giants  —  locusts,  lindens,  sycamores, 
elms,  beeches  —  whose  branches  shelter  and  shade 
the  venerable  walls.  From  this  site  we  see  upon 
the  one  hand  vistas  of  undulating  sweeps  of  tillage, 
upon  the  other  hand  we  look  across  wide-reaching 
meads,  bosky  lowlands,  and  the  distant  river  to  a 
farther  expanse  of  fields  fringed  and  dotted  with 
trees.  The  dwelling  is  a  substantial,  old-fashioned, 
and  wholly  delightful  edifice  of  wood,  whose  mas- 
sive timbers  were  erected  by  the  great-grandfather 
of  the  present  occupant.  The  suns  and  storms  of 
near  a  century  have  weathered  its  walls,  and  the 
touch  of  time  has  toned  and  mellowed  it  into  an 
aspect  of  dignified  comeliness  to  which  our  modern 
staring  structures  never  attain. 

Within,  a  wide  hall  extends  through  the  center 
of  the  house,  having  porch-shaded  doors  at  either 
end  ;  flanking  the  hall  are  spacious,  low-studded, 
pleasantly  furnished  rooms,  wherein  are  tastefully 
arranged  books  and  curios,  cherished  family  relics 
and  antiquities,  and  many  interesting  specimens 
gathered  by  Dr.  Abbott  in  his  outdoor  rambles. 
The  "andirons"  of  his  "December"  essay  stand 
upon  the  hospitable  hearth  of  the  parlor  at  the 
107 


Literary  Rambles 

right,  and  directly  above  is  the  pleasant  chamber 
which  is  the  author's  literary  workshop,  not  his 
study,  for  that  is  —  as  Emerson's  was  —  "any- 
where out-of-doors." 

A  recess  beside  the  large  fireplace  contains  the 
Doctor's  desk, —  a  quaint  combination  of  bookcase, 
bureau,  and  .  writing-desk,  with  many  pigeonholes, 
curious  little  drawers,  and  amazing  secret  recep- 
tacles,— which  was  made  in  1759  and  has  descended 
to  its  present  owner  through  four  generations  of 
Abbotts.  In  exploring  its  covert  repositories  since 
it  came  into  his  possession  the  Doctor  has  discov- 
ered some  interesting  documents  relating  to  his 
family  history,  and  it  now  contains  title-deeds  and 
other  instruments  and  records  dating  well  back  into 
the  seventeenth  century.  Upon  this  desk  —  men- 
tioned in  Abbott's  "  Rambles  of  a  Naturalist  " — 
he  has  written  all  his  widely  read  books,  including 
the  recently  published  "In  Nature's  Realm,"  and 
nearly  all  of  the  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty 
reports,  essays,  monographs,  etc.,  in  which  he  has 
imparted  to  the  public  the  results  of  his  thoughtful 
researches. 

Here  nightly  he  minutely  registers  in  large, 
ledger-like  volumes,  which  have  been  accumulating 
for  nearly  forty  years,  the  field-studies  and  observa- 
tions of  the  day  ;  and  here  for  two  or  three  hours 
of  each  morning  he  is  systematically  engaged  in 
108 


Where  and  How  Abbott  Writes 

elaborating  from  these  records  his  fascinating  sketches 
and  the  chapters  of  his  popular  books  on  outdoor 
themes,  or  else  is  engaged  upon  more  imaginative 
and  purely  literary  compositions.  The  latter,  also, 
are  produced  largely  by  developing,  arranging,  and 
combining  previous  jottings  and  memoranda.  These 
are  made  upon  tablets  (which  the  Doctor  always 
carries  for  the  purpose),  and  in  any  of  the  accus- 
tomed haunts  of  his  observant  idleness, —  by  the 
creek,  in  the  woods,  the  field,  the  lowland  swamp, 
even  in  a  sightly  tree-top, —  and  these  jottings  record 
not  so  much  events  as  Meas,  outlines  of  plots,  sug- 
gestions for  fictional  characters  and  incidents,  even 
poetical  lines  which  come  to  mind  during  his  daily 
"rambles  about  home"  and  are  measurably  incited 
by  the  scenes  among  which  those  rambles  lead. 

Not  all  the  work  accomplished  upon  the  old 
desk  is  done  in  the  methodical  morning  hours  ;  the 
Doctor  is  often  moved  to  literary  production  at 
other  times,  and  once,  not  long  ago,  he  seated  him- 
self here  at  bedtime  to  add  a  line  for  the  completion 
of  a  paragraph  of  his  morning's  work,  and  wrote 
steadily  on  until  surprised  by  four  o'clock  and 
dawn.  While  he  is  writing  a  book  upon  the  top 
of  the  desk  he  usually  has  in  cache  somewhere 
within  or  beneath  it  the  manuscript  of  another  vol- 
ume, which  is  "seasoning"  while  it  awaits  the 
author's  pleasure  to  give  it  to  the  world. 
109 


Literary  Rambles 

Lately  he  has  been  especially  engaged  in  archaeo- 
logical researches,  extensive  excavations  having  been 
made  upon  his  farm  which  brought  to  light  many 
traces  of  ancient  man  which  will  help  to  settle  the 
question  of  the  antiquity  of  human  occupation  of 
the  Delaware  valley.  This  question  has  so  long 
and  seriously  occupied  his  attention  that  he  is 
naturally  gratified  that  the  outcome  of  the  recent 
most  carefully  conducted  explorations  has  been  to 
confirm  the  view  previously  set  forth  by  him. 

Dr.  Abbott's  enthusiasm,  when  he  encounters 
some  novelty  in  natural  history,  strikes  his  neighbors 
with  astonishment  at  times, — as  when  he  chases  a 
butterfly  or  beetle  into  a  back  yard  and  kicks  the 
dog  that  interferes,  —  and  has  given  rise  to  some 
strange  impressions  concerning  him  :  one  neighbor, 
being  asked  by  a  literary  pilgrim  if  she  knew  where 
Dr.  Abbott  lived,  replied,  "Him  as  collects  bugs 
for  the  gov'ment?  Oh,  back  in  the  woods  some- 
wheres  !" 

The  Doctor's  quaint  farm-house  figures  in  his 
writings ;  a  double  door  which  formerly  opened  at 
one  side  is  celebrated  as  the  "old  kitchen  door" 
of  "Travels  in  a  Tree-Top."  Around  the  house 
lie  the  broad  acres  which  have  produced  for  us 
abundant  crops  of  something  better  than  esculents  ; 
here  are  fields  where,  as  boy  and  man,  Dr.  Abbott 
has  explored  all  his  life,  and  made  the  discoveries  to 
no 


Abbott — Researches  and  Collections 

which  we  are  indebted  for  his  scientific  works,  and 
scenes  which  not  only  inspired  but  provided  the 
themes  and  settings  for  many  of  his  charming 
chapters. 

Pleasantly  remembered  strolls  with  the  genial 
author  among  his  haunts  enable  us  to  identify  ob- 
jects and  places  long  known  to  us  through  his  books. 
The  plateau  of  ploughland  extending  backward 
from  the  bluff  furnished  most  of  the  materials  upon 
which  he  founded  his  "  Stone  Age  in  New  Jersey  " 
and  "  Primitive  Industry."  Neolithic  weapons 
and  implements  have  here  been  found  in  great 
abundance,  and  the  Doctor  believes  that  not  less 
than  one  hundred  thousand  specimens  have  been 
collected  within  a  mile  or  two  of  his  residence. 
Many  thousands  have  been  gathered  from  his  own 
fields  ;  he  has  deposited  in  the  Peabody  Museum  at 
Cambridge  twenty-five  thousand  specimens,  which 
constitute  the  most  important  series  of  that  charac- 
ter ever  brought  together,  and  other  thousands  have 
been  placed  in  other  archasological  institutions. 
Among  these  relic-strewn  fields  is  the  "sink-hole" 
with  which  the  Doctor  has  made  us  familiar,  and 
this  tract,  with  the  adjacent  stretches  of  forest,  con- 
stitutes the  "upland"  of  his  "Upland  and 
Meadow,"  the  volume  which  a  noted  English 
critic  pronounces  the  most  delightful  of  its  kind  that 
America  has  produced. 

in 


Literary  Rambles 

The  bluff  so  frequently  mentioned  in  Dr.  Abbott's 
archaeological  works  rises  from  low  bottom-lands  to 
the  margin  of  his  lawn  and  curves  away  for  miles. 
Its  steep  incline  is  thickly  clad  with  bird-haunted 
foliage,  in  whose  shady  retreats  he  made  many  ob- 
servations noted  in  "The  Birds  About  Us"  and 
other  books.  Upon  the  brow  of  the  bluff  near 
the  house  "the  three  beeches"  which  give  a  name 
to  the  place  spread  their  giant  branches, —  trees  so 
venerable  that  they  were  described  for  landmarks  as 
long  ago  as  1689, —  and  farther  down  the  slope 
stands  the  majestic  chestnut-leaved  oak  pictured  in 
one  of  the  illustrations  of  "  Clear  Skies  and 
Cloudy." 

This  precipitous  acclivity  bounds  the  ancient 
river-bed  and  is  the  "gravelly,  bluffy  bank"  where 
were  found  most  of  the  paleolithic  implements,  the 
study  of  which  has  led  to  some  of  the  Doctor's  im- 
portant archaeological  discoveries  and  publications. 
Many  of  the  rude  chipped  stones  were  found  in  the 
talus,  but  a  considerable  number  were  discoved  in 
situ  in  freshly  exposed  portions  of  the  face  of  the 
escarpment  and  at  a  depth  of  many  feet  from  the 
surface.  The  character  of  these  implements,  their 
characteristic  occurrence  here  in  the  glacial  drift, 
the  finding  of  human  fragments  with  those  of  the 
mastodon,  musk-ox,  walrus,  etc.,  in  the  same  de- 
posit, apparently  justify  the  conclusion  reached  in 

112 


Rambles  and  Resorts 

Dr.  Abbott's  writings,  that  the  implements  be- 
longed to  a  primitive  race  —  probably  akin  to  the 
now  boreal  Eskimo  —  who  dwelt  in  this  river- 
valley  at  least  as  long  ago  as  the  great  ice  age  — 
"untold  centuries  before  the  advent  of  the  Indian." 

At  the  foot  of  the  bluff  we  find  the  place  of 
Abbott's  "Winter  Night's  Outing,"  and  the  reach 
of  low-lying  grass-lands  and  tangled  swamps  which 
extends  from  the  bluff  to  the  present  river-bank 
half  a  mile  away  has  a  prominent  place  in  his 
books.  Here  are  his  "  mucky  meadow  "  and  other 
scenes  among  which  his  trained  and  alert  senses 
noted  many  of  those  observations  of  animal  and 
plant  life  which  animate  "A  Naturalist's  Rambles," 
"Upland  and  Meadow,"  and  similar  volumes. 
In  a  corner  of  the  meadow  in  this  lowland  tract 
the  Doctor  shows  us  one  of  his  favorite  retreats  — 
a  shadow-flecked  nook  where  the  great  stump  of  a 
fallen  ash  tree  furnishes  a  seat  upon  which,  with  a 
slumberous  landscape  of  summer  beauty  outspread 
before  him,  he  sometimes  sits  for  hours  together 
meditating  or  composing  his  chapters.  The  white- 
oak  grove  near  the  mouth  of  a  gully  is  the  rural 
colosseum  in  which  assembled  the  "Corvine  Con- 
gress" of  his  "Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy." 

The  "gully  road"  leads  us  back  to  the  upland 
through  a  ravine  whose  steep  banks  have  yielded 
some  of  the  wonderful  paleolithic  implements,  dis- 

H  113 


Literary  Rambles 

closed  by  flood  erosions  of  the  now  diminutive 
brooklet  which  murmurs  musically  through  the  dell 
on  its  way  to  the  river.  This  ravine  is  shaded  by 
fine  old  trees,  and  one  magnificent  oak  which  casts 
its  branches  above  the  brook  has  for  us  more  than  a 
passing  interest,  for  it  was  while  looking  out  upon 
the  pleasant  prospect  of  forest,  field,  and  mead  from 
its  topmost  boughs  —  to  which  he  had  climbed  in 
quest  of  a  bird's  nest  —  that  the  Doctor  conceived 
the  idea  of  his  fascinating  "  Travels  in  a  Tree-Top." 
Beyond  the  garden  is  "the  stile,"  across  it  lies 
the  way  to  the  "sprout  land"  on  a  neighbor's 
domain,  and  farther  afield  are  other  familiar  locali- 
ties: Cook's  woods,  a  half-mile  distant,  is  the 
scene  of  the  sketch,  "Out  of  the  Beaten  Path"; 
the  "Old  Barn"  of  "Notes  of  the  Night"  stood 
upon  the  adjacent  farm;  the  stream  of  his  "Up 
the  Creek ' '  is  the  foliage-fringed  Crosswicks,  which 
sluggishly  flows  a  little  way  below,  his  companions 
in  the  outing  described  in  that  chapter  being  Joseph 
and  Jeannette  Gilder  of  Bellevue;  by  one  sharp 
flexure  of  the  stream  is  the  great  hollow  tree  which 
was  his  refuge  in  "The  Poetry  of  Shelter,"  and 
the  adjacent  lands  were  the  haunt  of  Miles  Over- 
field,  Abbott's  "Cuvier  of  Crosswicks  Creek." 
The  "Pearson's  Lane"  of  his  essay  is  but  a  mile 
away  from  his  own  and  leads  to  the  farmstead 
where  the  hero  and  heroine  of  his  "A  Colonial 
114 


Scenes  of  Abbott's  Books — Howarth 

Wooing,"  who  were  the  ancestors  of  the  author, 
settled  after  their  marriage.  The  same  farm  is  the 
scene  of  his  later  novel,  "When  the  Century  Was 
New,"  which  so  faithfully  depicts  the  conditions 
of  that  time;  and  the  storied  farm-house,  "Hutton 
Hall"  of  the  tale,  still  stands  —  half  wood  and 
half  brick,  as  pictured  upon  the  cover  of  the  volume 
— in  venerable  age. 

It  is  among  such  halcyon  scenes,  pervaded  by 
the  most  endearing  associations,  that  our  author 
contentedly  dwells  in  mid-life,  pursuing  with  sym- 
pathetic love  for  nature's  every  phase  those  studies 
which  have  brought  to  him  honor  and  fame,  writ- 
ing new  chapters  for  new  books,  and  meditating 
others  which  are  to  edify  and  delight  us  in  time 
to  come. 

Here  we  had  planned  to  end  our  present  pil- 
grimage, but  the  staid  old  city  of  Trenton  has  one 
spot  to  which  our  footsteps  always  turn  when  we 
chance  to  be  in  its  vicinage.  It  is  a  modest  clap- 
boarded  cottage  standing  in  a  quiet  and  unpreten- 
tious little  street  near  the  State  Model  School;  a 
diminutive  square  of  greensward  lies  before  it,  a  vine- 
clad  porch  shades  its  entrance,  and  within  lately 
dwelt  in  age  and  obscurity  Mrs.  Howarth,  the 
once  popular  poet,  "Clementine." 

This  shelter  for  her  declining  years  was  provided 

"5 


Literary  Rambles 

by  admiring  friends  at  a  time  when  an  apoplexy 
had  disabled  her  for  the  physical  tasks  by  which 
she  had  maintained  her  household.  The  same  ac- 
cident so  diminished  her  literary  productiveness  that 
comparatively  few  of  her  tender  and  graceful  poems 
were  written  in  her  present  abode.  In  a  poorer 
part  of  the  city,  a  mile  southward  from  the  " pil- 
lared sign'"  of  Gilder's  "Battle  Monument," — 
the  monument  which  her  own  poem  of  "The 
Men  of  '76"  helped  to  rear, —  we  find  the 
humble  dwelling  that  is  most  intimately  associated 
with  her  literary  career.  It  is  one  of  a  row  of 
similar  cheap  two-storied  wooden  tenements,  stand- 
ing beside  the  railway  on  Bridge  Street  near  Union. 
When  first  we  visited  this  house,  a  painted  sign 
(now  in  possession  of  Mr.  Gilder)  was  attached  to  the 
boards  beside  the  door  and  displayed  the  words, 
«'  Chairs  Caned  Here,"  and  in  the  low-ceiled, 
scantily  furnished  front  room  we  found  a  weary- 
faced  woman  —  "in  calico  garment  and  rough 
twisted  hair  ' ' —  toiling  at  the  task  which  provided 
bread  for  a  family  of  seven.  To  this  room  came 
Julia  Ward  Howe  on  the  visit  referred  to  in  her 
poem  "To  C.  H.,"  and  here  before  the  low  fire 
— "the  scanty  rag-carpet  sufficing  her  feet" — she 
talked  of  the  queendom  of  this  humbler  sister  of 
song.  Hither,  too,  came  Richard  Watson  Gilder 
and  Elizabeth  Oakes  Smith,  the  erst-renowned  poet 
of  "  The  Sinless  Child." 
116 


"Clementine's"  Home  and  Poems 

In  this  poor  place,  chained  to  coarse  and  sordid 
surroundings  from  which  her  sensitive  spirit  shrank, 
compelled  to  uncongenial  drudgery,  always  in  pov- 
erty, sometimes  in  want,  usually  able  to  pay  the 
rent  only  with  a  song,  "  Clementine  "  bravely  bore 
her  burden  until  she  sank  beneath  its  weight. 
Toiling  early  and  late,  during  those  cruel  years  her 
chief  solace  and  relief  was  found  in  the  composition 
of  the  touching  lyrics  that  have  thrilled  so  many 
hearts.  While  she  sang  of  many  themes,  the  sad- 
dest of  her  numbers  were  too  often  the  expressions 
of  her  own  sorrows  and  the  results  of  her  own  ex- 
periences :  many  of  her  stanzas  *'  have  fallen  like 
tears  upon  the  graves  of  her  children,"  three  of 
whom  died  in  this  lowly  dwelling  ;  some  poems,  like 
"Watching  the  Stars,"  pathetically  portray  her 
condition  here  and  give  utterance  to,  her  yearnings 
for  congenial  companionship  and  environment ;  and 
one  of  exquisite  tenderness,  «'  Thou  Wilt  Never 
Grow  Old,"  is  addressed  to  her  best-beloved 
child,  whom  the  agonized  mother  saw  trampled  to 
death  on  the  pavement  before  this  door. 

To  "  Clementine,"  after  those  toilsome,  troublous 
years,  came  noble  recognition,  friends,  financial  relief, 
and  her  life  in  the  cozy  Wall  Street  cottage  was 
one  of  comparative  content  and  serenity.  Her 
husband,  the  "wan  sufferer"  of  her  verse,  died, 
but  children  and  grandchildren  were  about  her,  and 
loving  friends  helped  to  fill  her  heart.  Her  hair 

"7 


Literary  Rambles 

was  silvered  and  her  step  was  slow,  but  she  cher- 
ished the  hopeful  optimism  of  her  younger  days, 
and  with  it  the  divine  spirit  of  song  which  animated 
her  whole  life. 

So  —  living  and  feeling  the  poetry  which  she 
lately  was  seldom  moved  to  write,  and  upborne  by 
the  faith  and  devotion  which  are  breathed  in  «<  The 
Passion  Flower,"  "  The  Olive  Star,"  "Song  of 
the  Saints,"  and  many  another  tender  lyric  —  she 
awaited  the  summons  to  embark  upon  that  unknown 
sea  whose  waters  "roll  round  the  world."  But  a 
few  months  ago  that  summons  came. 


118 


ABROAD 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON 


Thames-Side  Literary  Landmarks  —  A-von  Vale  —  Stratford 
—  The  Birthplace — Ne-w  Place — Guild  Chapel — 
Grammar  School — Holy  Trinity  Church  —  The  Tomb  — 
Memorial — Dr.  Hall — Red  Horse  Inn  —  Hathaivay 
Cottage  —  Where  Shakespeare  -was  Married  —  Other 
Shrines. 

TN  faring  to  the  Shakespeare  shrines  of  Warwick- 
shire  we  love  to  follow,  so  far  as  we  may,  the 
valley  of  the  Thames.  From  the  London  haunts 
of  the  myriad-minded  bard,  the  places  of  his  theaters 
and  residences  on  Bankside  and  Ludgate  Hill,  we 
may  trace  the  course  of  his  many  journeys  between 
the  metropolis  and  his  Stratford  home.  If  we  fol- 
low more  closely  the  storied  river,  our  way  is 
redolent  of  literary  associations.  We  stroll  and 
loiter  in  Chelsea,  with  its  memories  of  Carlyle  and 
Rossetti ;  Fulham,  the  sometime  home  of  Hook, 
Richardson,  Bulwer,  and  Swinburne,  and  the  bur- 
ial-place of  Vincent  Bourne  ;  Putney,  where  Gibbon 
was  born  and  Hunt  died  ;  Barn  Elms  Park,  where 
Cowley  and  Cobbett  dwelt  and  the  "Kit  Cat 
Club ' '  assembled  ;  Hammersmith,  where  Marryat 
lived  and  Thomson  wrote  ;  Chiswick,  with  its  home 
and  grave  of  Hogarth.  Farther  we  find  the 
Twickenham  of  Pope,  Walpole,  and  Fielding  ;  the 
haunts  of  "Junius";  the  tombs  of  Thomson,  Kean, 

121 


Literary  Rambles 

and  Matthew  Arnold;  the  riverside  scenes  amid 
which  Shelley  wrote  "The  Revolt  of  Islam";  the 
ivy-clad  church  where  Tennyson  was  married.  At 
sleepy  little  Ewelme  Chaucer  sojourned,  at  Oxford 
he  laid  his  "  Milleres  Tale,"  about  and  above  Ox- 
ford are  the  river- views  which  inspired  some  of  the 
best  of  Arnold's  verse,  at  Godstow  Scott's  "Fair 
Rosamond"  first  met  her  royal  lover,  Cumnor 
was  the  place  of  the  murder  of  Amy  Robsart  in 
"  Kenilworth,"  Kelmscott  Manor  was  for  some 
years  the  joint  residence  of  Rossetti  and  William 
Morris,  Lechlade  is  the  scene  of  Shelley's  beautiful 
" Summer- Evening  Churchyard." 

Beyond  these  shrines  we  leave  the  "  River  of  the 
Poets ' '  and  cross  the  green  Cotswold  ridge  into 
the  valley  where  the  silver  Avon  "  Exhilarates  the 
Meads."  All  this  region  is  dominated  by  the 
memory  and  genius  of  Shakespeare ;  and  whatever 
may  be  the  primary  and  ostensible  object  of  our 
literary  prowlings  here  —  whether  historic  Warwick 
or  storied  Compton  Wynyates,  the  home  of  Dyer, 
the  birthplace  of  Butler,  or  the  tomb  of  Somerville, 
Hughes'  Rugby,  Scott's  "Kenilworth,"  George 
Eliot's  "Loamshire"  or  Miss  Mulock's  "Norton 
Bury" — our  pilgrimages  inevitably  end  at  the  cot- 
tage where  the  great  world-poet  was  born  and  the 
church  beside  the  Avon  where  his  ashes  are  en- 
tombed 

122 


Shakespeare  and  Stratford 

A  winsome  way  we  follow  the  windings  of  the 
placid  Avon,  flowing  between  willow-fringed  mar- 
gins and  through  a  broad  valley  bounded  by  low, 
undulating  hills,  to  find  amid  flower-starred  mea- 
dows the  ancient  borough  which  the  genius  of  one 
man  has  made  famous  forever.  Of  Stratford  Shake- 
speare is  the  sole  glory  and  boast ;  as  we  traverse  the 
old  streets  we  find  everywhere  evidences  of  the 
regard  which  prizes  and  preserves  every  memento 
of  him  who  made  the  tranquil  town — otherwise 
unvisited  and  unheard-of — an  object  of  reverent 
pilgrimage  to  the  cultured  of  all  nations  and  climes. 

The  population  has  multiplied  since  Shakespeare' s 
time,  and  some  of  the  fields  through  which  he 
strayed  have  disappeared  beneath  modern  dwellings  ; 
but  the  lapsing  centuries  have  spared  many  of  the 
structures  he  knew,  and  the  old  house  in  Hen- 
ley Street,  hallowed  by  tradition  as  his  birthplace, 
is  religiously  preserved.  Its  half-timbered,  rough- 
plastered  walls  and  massive  chimney-pile  are  likely 
to  endure  through  other  centuries  to  come.  Beneath 
this  roof-tree  we  are  received  more  like  guests  than 
tourists,  and  the  sympathetic  demeanor  of  the  custo- 
dians, the  familiar  aspect  of  the  rooms  and  the 
precious  associations  of  which  we  are  joint  inher- 
itors with  the  whole  English-speaking  race,  make 
this  seem  less  a  "show-place"  than  many  others 
to  which  our  rambles  lead. 
123 


Literary  Rambles 

Here  we  see  the  family  room  with  its  low  ceiling 
and  massive  beams,  its  rude  stone  pavement  — 
broken  during  the  occupancy  of  the  room  as  a 
butcher-shop  —  and  its  huge  fireplace  with  a  seat 
wrought  in  the  masonry  whereon  the  lad  Shake- 
speare may  have  often  sat,  linking  fancy  unto  fancy 
as  he  gazed  upon  the  images  in  the  fire.  Behind 
this  room  is  a  ruder  kitchen,  and  beside  it,  in  the 
apartment  which  was  once  John  Shakespeare's 
"  woolshop,"  and  where  the  boy  doubtless  assisted 
at  his  father's  trade  after  he  had  left  school  and  his 
sire  had  fallen  into  financial  straits,  is  the  museum 
and  library.  Here  are  preserved  deeds  to  and 
from  Shakespeare's  father,  pieces  of  Shakespeare's 
mulberry  tree,  his  declaration  in  a  suit  brought  by 
him  against  Philip  Rogers  to  recover  the  price  of 
malt  sold  to  the  latter,  the  letter  of  Richard  Quiney 
—  whose  son  married  Shakespeare's  daughter, 
Judith  —  soliciting  from  "  his  loveing  good  Friend 
and  Countryman,  Mr.  Wm.  Shackespere,"  the 
loan  of  thirty  pounds,  and,  among  numerous  relics 
of  less  certain  authenticity,  the  decrepit  and  worm- 
eaten  desk  at  which  Shakespeare  is  said  to  have  sat 
in  the  grammar-school,  and  the  signet-ring,  with 
the  initials  "  W.  S."  bound  with  a  true  lover's  knot, 
which  was  found  some  years  ago  near  the  church- 
yard and  is  believed  to  have  been  lost  by  Shake- 
speare just  before  the  execution  of  his  will,  thus  ne- 
124 


The  Birthplace 

cessitating  the  substitution  of  the  word   "hand" 
for  the  effaced  word  "  seal  "  in  that  document. 

From  the  kitchen  well-worn  stairs  wind  upward  to 
the  humble  apartment  where  the  immortal  poet  was 
born.  It  is  a  dingy  room  of  moderate  size,  dimly 
lighted  from  the  front  by  a  quaint  multi-paned  case- 
ment said  to  contain  many  of  the  original  glasses ;  mas- 
sive timbers  strut  from  its  low  roof  and  rib  its  rough 
walls,  the  sagging  plaster  of  its  ceiling  is  sustained 
by  a  curious  network  of  steel  laths,  the  original 
planks  and  nails  of  its  uncarpeted  floor  are  worn  and 
polished  by  feet  of  innumerable  pilgrims  who  in  this 
poor  chamber  do  homage  to  the  colossal  genius  that 
was  incarnated  here.  Many  thousands  of  votaries 
have  here  inscribed  their  autographs  until  every  inch 
of  ceiling  is  discolored  and  every  old  window-pane 
is  dimmed  by  them.  "  W.  Scott"  is  among  the 
signs-manual  scratched  upon  the  window,  and  the 
plastering  bears,  or  has  borne,  the  names  of  hun- 
dreds of  others  whom  the  world  has  known  and 
honored  ;  some  of  these  signatures  have  flaked  from 
the  surface,  others  have  been  repeatedly  overwritten, 
and  it  is  as  much  by  the  eye  of  faith  as  of  vision 
that  we  decipher  names  like  Byron,  Walton,  Dick- 
ens, Irving,  Thackeray,  Tennyson,  Bayard  Taylor, 
etc.  Here  is  a  copy  of  the  Stratford  bust  of  Shake- 
speare, near  the  door  is  a  brick  fireplace  with  huge 
timber  mantel-tree,  in  one  corner  stands  the  chair 
125 


Literary  Rambles 

of  which  Irving  wrote,  and  other  antique  articles  of 
furniture  are  settled  against  the  walls.  Large  pipes 
laid  along  the  floors  are  filled  with  hot  water  con- 
veyed from  the  custodian's  cottage  for  heating  the 
rooms,  no  fires  or  artificial  lights  being  permitted 
beneath  this  sacred  roof.  The  danger  of  its  destruc- 
tion by  fire  has  been  further  diminished  by  the 
demolition  of  the  structures  which  formerly  adjoined 
it  upon  either  side. 

The  house  stands  at  the  border  of  the  street, 
before  it  in  Shakespeare's  youth  was  the  "muck- 
hill"  whose  too  great  accumulation  caused  his 
father  to  be  amerced  by  the  health  authorities  of  the 
time.  The  space  beside  and  behind  the  dwelling, 
where  then  stood  the  father's  tan-pits  and  out- 
buildings, is  now  a  neat  garden  with  sward  and 
pleasant  shrubbery,  and  here  grow  flowers  that 
Shakespeare  loved  and  whose  fragrance  breathes 
through  many  stanzas  of  his  works. 

The  ancient  dwelling  at  the  near-by  corner  of 
High  Street  was  for  thirty-six  years  the  abode  of 
Shakespeare's  second  daughter,  Judith,  whom  Wil- 
liam Black  idealized  in  the  story  bearing  her  name  ; 
a  front  of  stucco  now  conceals  its  picturesque  tim- 
bers, but  we  may  see  the  rooms  she  inhabited  and, 
beneath  them,  the  cellar,  with  walls  five  feet  in 
thickness,  in  which  her  husband,  Thomas  Quiney, 
the  vintner,  kept  his  casks  long  years  after  its  dark 
126 


Judith  Shakespeare — New  Place 

vault  had  ceased  to  be  the  dungeon  of  the  borough 
prison.  But  a  few  steps  distant  dwelt  her  neigh- 
bor and  friend,  Katherine  Rogers,  mother  of  the 
founder  of  our  great  Harvard  University,  and 
among  the  quaint  old  houses  of  this  haunted  High 
Street  are  two  which  were  sometime  occupied  by 
Shakespeare's  crony,  Julius  Shaw, —  witness  signa- 
tory to  his  will, —  and  often  visited  by  the  bard. 
The  first  of  these  is  next  door  but  one  to  New 
Place,  the  other,  much  altered,  faces  it  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street  and  for  centuries  has  been 
an  inn. 

Of  Shakespeare's  beloved  New  Place,  once  the 
largest  and  handsomest  residence  in  the  town,  not 
much  remains.  The  great  garden,  whose  avenues 
the  poet  paced  while  he  pondered  some  of  his 
noblest  dramas,  and  which  then  extended  to  the 
shining  waters  of  the  Avon,  is  contracted  to  a  few 
rods  of  lawn.  Within  the  inclosure  and  upon  the 
exact  site  of  its  ancestor  grows  a  mulberry,  a  scion 
of  the  famous  tree  which  Shakespeare  planted  and 
sat  under,  and  which  Rev.  Francis  Gastrell — whom 
Rossetti,  in  a  poem  written  here,  characterized  as 
"  the  supreme  unhung" — destroyed  because  Shake- 
spearian admirers  persisted  in  visiting  it.  Of  the 
spacious  and  dignified  mansion  "of  bricke  and 
tymbre ' '  which  Shakespeare  restored  and  inhabited, 
little  beside  the  decaying  fragments  of  its  foundation 
127 


Literary  Rambles 

walls,  which  are  protected  by  frames  set  in  the 
sward,  is  now  to  be  seen:  such  parts  of  the  hal- 
lowed abode  as  had  been  spared  by  the  previous 
owner  were  razed  —  in  order  to  avoid  a  tax  for 
charitable  purposes  —  by  the  same  "reverend" 
vandal  that  felled  the  mulberry  and  thus  "damned 
himself  to  eternal  fame." 

The  well  from  which  the  poet  drank  and  which 
was  in  the  cellar  of  his  house  still  remains  and  is 
now  picturesquely  embowered  with  ivy.  In  this 
well  and  about  the  old  foundations  have  been  found 
a  number  of  relics  and  curiosities  which  are  pre- 
served in  the  adjoining  house,  which  was  once  the 
home  of  Shakespeare's  granddaughter,  wife  to  the 
son  of  his  friend  Anthony  Nash.  Despite  the 
meagerness  of  its  remains,  we  find  New  Place  one 
of  the  most  impressive  of  the  shrines  sanctified  by 
association  with  the  world's  greatest  poet :  in  boy- 
hood he  well  knew  this,  "the  great  house"  of  the 
town  —  he  passed  it  daily  on  his  way  to  school  — 
and  to  possess  it  may  have  been  one  of  the  ambi- 
tions of  his  early  life  ;  he  purchased  and  repaired  it 
as  soon  as  his  means  would  permit ;  to  it  he  made 
prolonged  visits  from  London,  during  one  of  which 
he  gave  his  favorite  daughter,  Susanna,  to  the  man 
of  her  choice ;  here  he  spent  the  closing  years  of 
his  too  brief  life  crowned  by  the  love  of  his  family 
and  associates ;  here,  but  two  months  before  his 
128 


Shakespeare  at  New  Place 

death,  he  blessed  the  winsome  Judith's  wedding  ; 
here,  upon  his  birthday  —  the  festival  of  St.  George 

—  he  passed  to   "the  undiscovered  country  from 
whose  bourn  no  traveler  returns";  here  gathered 
sorrowing  friends  to  look  once  more  upon  his  face 
before  it  should  be  hidden  forever  ;  hence  he  was 
borne  to  his  burial. 

Here,  too,  in  the  ripeness  of  his  years  and  the 
meridian  of  his  powers,  he  produced  wondrous 
works  like  "The  Tempest,"  "Cymbeline,"  and 
"A  Winter's  Tale";  and,  as  we  drink  from  his 
well  and  linger  among  the  roses  of  his  garden  and 
sit  beneath  the  whispering  foliage  of  the  mulberry, 
we  love  to  remember  that  in  this  retirement  his 
peerless  fancy  beheld  some  of  its  inspired  visions  — 
that  here  "first  waved  the  mystic  wand  of 
Prospero,  and  Ariel  sang  of  dead  men's  bones 
turned  into  pearls  and  corals,  here  arose  into  ever- 
lasting life  Hermione,  and  here  Miranda  and 
Perdita  —  twins  of  heaven's  own  radiant  goodness 

—  were  created." 

Looking  forth  from  his  windows  or  from  the 
shade  of  his  garden,  the  object  most  familiar  to  the 
vision  of  Shakespeare  was  the  antique  Guild  Chapel 
which,  with  its  buttressed  walls,  its  mullionedi  win- 
dows, its  Norman  porch  and  square  tower  of  gray 
stone,  still  stands  beyond  the  narrow  Chapel  Lane. 
Its  great  bell,  recast  and  still  in  use,  summoned 
i  129 


Literary  Rambles 

him  to  school  in  his  childhood,  sounded  the  curfew 
every  evening  of  his  life,  and  solemnly  tolled  when 
he  died.  With  the  chapel's  classical  interior  he 
was  not  less  familiar,  for  he  held  sittings  there,  and 
there  he  was  sometime  a  pupil  during  the  repair  of 
the  school-room  next  door ;  to  the  latter  experience 
has  been  attributed  the  phrase  "a  school  i'  the 
church"  which  he  employs  in  "Twelfth  Night." 
The  quaint  old  Guild  Hall,  adjoining  the  chapel, 
in  which  the  poet  probably  first  witnessed  a 
theatrical  performance,  was  recently  restored  and 
we  now  see  the  long,  low  room  with  its  stone 
floor  and  oaken  paneling  essentially  *  the  same  as 
Shakespeare  knew  it.  The  school-room  above  has 
now  its  many-paned  windows,  hacked  benches  and 
desks,  high-pitched  roof,  and  dark  framework  of 
rough-hewn  rafters  and  beams  as  in  the  time  when 
he,  with  "shining  morning  face,"  daily  came  at 
early  morn  for  a  twelve-hours'  pursuit  of  the  "Small 
Latine  and  less  Greeke  "  which  Jonson  allows  him. 
The  lad  had  learned  to  read  before  he  was  admit- 
ted to  the  school,  but  here  doubtless  he  conned 
some  of  those  records  of  romantic  deeds  which  he 
subsequently  metamorphosed  into  the  matchless 
dramas.  During  most  of  the  period  of  Shake- 
speare's pupilage  here  his  master  was  Sir  Thomas 
Hunt,  curate  of  Luddington,  and  we  find  the 
quaint  and  venerable  cottage  in  which  he  dwelt 
130 


Guild  Chapel — School — The  Church 

still  standing  just  behind  the  theater  of  his  peda- 
gogic labors. 

Reverently  we  trace  the  course  of  the  mournful 
procession  which  bore  the  coffined  form  of  the  poet 
from  his  home  to  his  sepulcher  —  out  of  the  gates 
of  New  Place,  along  the  shady  highway,  past  the 
school  of  his  boyhood,  past  the  abode  of  his 
daughter,  across  the  silent  churchyard,  under  the 
arching  limes,  through  the  carven  porch,  out  of  the 
bright  sunshine  into  enduring  dusk. 

The  ancient  temple  that  guards  the  dust  of 
Shakespeare  is  the  literary  Mecca  of  all  mankind. 
Its  gray  walls  rise  from  the  marge  of  the  peaceful 
Avon,  protected  by  clustering  elms  and  yew  trees 
that  whisper  above  the  mossy  marbles  and  the 
moldering]  heaps  of  the  old  churchyard  where 
Shakespeare's  son,  Hamnet,  sleeps  in  an  unmarked 
grave.  The  edifice  is  an  effective  architectural 
blending  of  the  early  English  with  the  graceful 
Norman- Gothic,  erected  and  restored  at  different 
periods,  with  fine  windows,  embattled  roofs,  and  a 
square  central  tower  surmounted  by  a  spire  which 
rises  high  above  the  tree-tops,  a  fair  landmark  in 
all  the  countryside.  An  avenue,  paved  with 
ancient  gravestones,  whose  worn  inscriptions  are 
scarcely  legible,  and  bordered  by  fragrant  lime 
trees  through  whose  overarching  foliage  the  sunlight 


Literary  Rambles 

flecks  and  freckles  the  shadowy  floor,  leads  to  the 
church  door. 

The  renovations  and  "improvements"  of  re- 
cent years  have  considerably  changed  the  interior, 
but  in  the  solemn  twilight  of  the  place  we  find  all 
the  objects  we  seek.  Near  the  entrance  is  the  an- 
cient parish  register  with  its  record  of  the  baptism 
and  burial  of  Shakespeare;  in  the  opposite  aisle  is 
the  broken  font  at  which  he  was  christened.  This 
tastefully  carved  relic  was  long  since  rescued  from 
the  base  use  to  which  it  had  come  —  it  was  a 
watering-trough  at  a  pump  —  and  restored  to  the 
sanctuary,  though  not  to  its  pristine  place,  and 
from  its  crumbling  bowl  a  son  of  Joseph  Jefferson 
was  baptized  twenty-five  years  ago,  and  named 
William  Winter  after  our  American  poet  and  critic. 

Pacing  the  length  of  the  dim  nave,  we  find  in 
the  chancel  the  slab  which  covers  the  handful  of 
ashes  which  was  once  the  earthly  vesture  of  the 
greatest  intellect  humanity  has  known.  The  plain 
flat  stone  is  laid  in  the  pavement  before  the  altar, 
where  rainbow  light  from  the  great  chancel  window 
falls  upon  it  and  illumines  the  familiar  and  much- 
debated  words  of  prayer  and  solemn  execration  that 
are  graven  upon  its  surface.  Looking  upon  these 
rugged  and  pathetic  lines  while  he  bends  above  the 
dust  of  the  "Star  of  Poets,"  the  pilgrim  feels  little 
patience  with  the  witless  attempt  to  read  into  them 
132 


The  Tomb  of  Shakespeare 

the  declaration  that  Shakespeare  was  murdered  to 
prevent  his  confession  that  his  works  were  the 
product  of  another.  We  rejoice  that  the  awful  in- 
scription—  whether  written  by  the  poet  or  the 
undertaker  —  has  served  to  keep  his  remains  here 
in  the  spot  where  he  longed  to  lie  among  the  loved 
associations  of  his  life,  and  to  protect  his  tomb  not 
only  from  the  profane  desecration  he  dreaded,  but 
from  more  venial  disturbance  —  no  one  daring  to 
open  it,  although  Shakespeare's  wife  and  daughter 
"did  earnestly  desire  to  be  laid  in  the  same  grave 
with  him." 

Beside  him  on  the  left,  close  to  the  wall,  lies  his 
wife,  on  the  right  his  daughter  Susanna  sleeps  be- 
neath an  inscription  eulogistic  of  her  charity,  wis- 
dom, and  goodness;  in  the  same  row  are  the  graves 
of  members  of  her  family,  and  near  by  we  see  the 
effigied  tomb  of  Shakespeare's  friend,  John  Combe, 
upon  whom  the  poet  is  believed  to  have  composed 
a  facetious  epitaph.  In  a  niche  of  the  north  wall, 
just  above  the  grave  of  Shakespeare,  is  the  well- 
known  monumental  bust,  made  from  a  death-mask 
and  erected  by  his  family  not  long  after  his  death, 
which  is  the  most  authentic  and  impressive  memento 
of  the  "Swan  of  Avon,"  save  only  his  unequaled 
compositions.  Its  original  colors  have  been  re- 
stored, and  we  may  measurably  see  the  flesh-tints 
of  his  face  and  hands,  the  hazel  of  his  eyes,  the 


Literary  Rambles 

warm  auourn  of  his  hair  and  pointed  beard,  the 
black  and  red  of  his  garb,  as  they  appeared  to  his 
friends  in  life.  From  the  same  side-wall  the 
"American  window"  looks  down  upon  the  poet's 
grave;  it  is  the  gift  of  transatlantic  visitors,  and 
its  beautiful  panes  represent  by  Scriptural  subjects 
Shakespeare's  seven  ages  of  man,  as  described  in 
"As  You  Like  It."  Other  objects,  antique  and 
storied,  here  abound,  but  in  this  sacred  place  we 
regard  only  the  things  which  pertain  to  Shakespeare; 
the  edifice  itself,  solemn  and  impressive  as  an  an- 
cient Christian  church,  is  for  us  but  the  mausoleum 
which  forever  keeps  the  discarded  cerements  of  his 
celestial  genius. 

So,  too,  the  town  with  its  industries  and  its 
thriving  thousands  of  people,  has  for  us  but  a  single 
interest  —  Shakespeare.  And  we  are  not  allowed 
to  neglect  that  interest  here,  for  never  did  mediaeval 
city  employ  the  prestige  of  its  saint  more  advan- 
tageously than  does  Stratford  the  fame  of  its  im- 
mortal son.  We  hear  his  name  everywhere,  in 
the  streets,  the  shops,  the  market-place,  on  the 
lips  of  touters  and  tourists;  we  see  it  blazoned  on 
inns,  stores,  banks,  factories;  the  manufacture  and 
sale  of  Shakespearian  mementos  are  conspicuous  ac- 
tivities of  the  place.  Through  old  streets,  teeming 
with  Shakespearean  sign-boards,  trades-marks  and 
effigies,  we  stroll  to  other  spots  less  intimately  con- 
nected with  the  poet  than  those  earlier  visited. 

134 


Dr.  Hall — Shakespeare  Memorial 

A  picturesque  gabled  and  bay- windowed  house 
still  standing  near  the  site  of  the  Priests'  College, 
was  the  home  of  his  eldest  daugher,  Susanna,  wife 
of  John  Hall,  the  physician  who  probably  attended 
the  poet  in  his  last  illness,  and  made  the  death-mask 
from  his  face.  Unfortunately  the  earliest  entries  in 
Dr.  Hall's  case-book  date  from  the  year  following 
Shakespeare's  death,  but  he  quaintly  records  the 
illnesses  of  the  poet's  daughter  and  granddaughter, 
and  the  godmother  of  Judith  Shakespeare,  the  wife 
of  his  friend  Nash,  and  the  son  of  his  friend  Quiney, 
etc.  Also  the  case  of  Shakespeare's  associate 
Dray  ton  —  "an  excellent  poet,  treated  fora  tertian 
with  a  mixture  which  wrought  upwards  and  down- 
wards." 

On  the  place  of  the  Rother  Market,  where  John 
Shakespeare  purchased  materials  for  his  business,  is 
the  beautiful  memorial  fountain,  the  appropriate  gift 
of  the  late  George  W.  Childs,  of  Philadelphia,  for 
whose  dedication  one  of  Holmes' s  last  poems  was 
written.  Within  the  original  grounds  of  New 
Place,  and  not  far  from  the  site  of  Shakespeare's 
barn,  which  was  subsequently  converted  into  a 
theater,  the  "Shakespeare  Memorial"  lifts  its 
sightly  tower  and  its  steep  roofs  and  pinnacles  from 
Avon's  bank,  midway  between  the  many-arched 
Clopton  Bridge  and  the  church  of  the  poet's  sep- 
ulcher.  About  the  building  lies  an  ornamental 
park,  with  pleasant  alleys  winding  among  lawns, 

'35 


Literary  Rambles 

foliage,  and  flowers,  and  within  its  red-brick  walls 
are  a  library  with  thousands  of  volumes  and  manu- 
scripts of  Shakespearean  literature,  an  art  gallery 
which  includes  among  its  treasures  the  Marcus 
Droeshout  portrait  and  the  beautiful  Davenant  bust, 
and  a  theater  where,  in  April  of  each  year,  are 
presented  the  famous  birth-week  performances  of 
Shakespeare's  plays. 

If  we  follow  the  example  of  that  pioneer  of 
American  literary  pilgrims,  Washington  Irving,  and 
lodge  at  the  ancient  Red  Horse  Inn,  we  may 
occupy  the  chamber  that  once  was  his,  sit  in  his  little 
parlor,  "some  twelve  feet  square,"  and  see  (but  no 
longer  handle)  the  arm-chair  and  poker  which  figure 
as  Geoffrey  Crayon's  throne  and  scepter  in  the 
initial  reverie  of  his  charming  sketch.  The  cozy, 
old-fashioned  hostelry  was  well-known  to  Shake- 
speare ;  doubtless  Jonson,  Drayton,  and  Burbage 
lodged  there  in  his  day,  as  did  Betterton  and  Gar- 
rick  long  decades  later.  Its  opulent  registers  bear 
such  names  as  Longfellow,  Ripley,  Gerald  Massey, 
Artemus  Ward,  Bayard  Taylor,  Edmund  Yates, 
Elihu  Burritt,  William  Winter,  Charles  Dudley 
Warner,  and  many  more  of  the  guild  of  letters. 

A    sunny   summer    morning    finds    us    strolling 

through    fields  aflame  with  scarlet    poppies  to  the 

home  of  "sweet  Anne  Hathaway,"  at  Shottery. 

The  rural  footpath  is  the  same  so  often  trodden  by 

136 


Red  Horse  Inn — Hathaway  Cottage 

the  impatient  feet  of  young  Shakespeare  hastening  to 
his  sweetheart ;  beside  it  bloom  the  same  wild- 
flowers  he  saw,  above  it  birds  warble  the  same  song 
of  love  that  gladdened  his  heart.  We  follow  the 
windings  of  the  path  among  fertile  ploughlands  and 
lush  green  meadows  and  along  fragrant  hedgerows 
to  a  brook,  murmuring  beneath  tall  trees,  and  find, 
a  few  rods  beyond,  the  famous  cottage.  It  is  a 
long,  low,  thick-thatched,  half-timbered  tenement, 
shaded  by  trees  and  buried  in  vines  which  cover 
the  oaken  ribs  and  rugged  plastering  of  its  walls  and 
clamber  upon  its  humble  roof.  Before  it  is  an 
ample  garden  with  prim  beds  of  shrubs  and  old- 
fashioned  flowers  through  which  an  uneven  path  of 
flagstones  leads  to  the  leafy,  moss-grown  well  and 
to  the  quaint  doorway. 

Beneath  this  roof  time  has  wrought  most  gently ; 
the  floor  of  flags,  the  great  blackened  fireplace  with 
its  wide  hearth,  oaken  mantel,  and  snug  chimney- 
corners,  the  curious  casements,  the  low  ceiling  trav- 
ersed by  heavy  beams,  endure  unchanged  by  the 
centuries  that  have  elapsed  since  this  lowly  place 
was  the  scene  of  Shakespeare's  wooing.  In  the 
living-room  a  decayed  high-backed  settle,  on  which 
the  lovers  may  have  sat  together,  stands  by  the 
fireside,  a  worn  Bible  with  the  Hathaway  family 
record  lies  upon  an  old  table,  other  articles  of 
ancient  furniture  are  at  hand  and,  here,  too,  is  a 

137 


Literary  Rambles 

voluminous  register  with  the  signatures  of  illustrious 
visitors  —  Dickens,  Longfellow,  Tennyson,  Con- 
way,  Mark  Lemon,  William  Black,  Wilkie  Collins, 
Mark  Twain,  and  many  others.  In  the  chamber 
roofed  by  the  low,  sloping  thatch  and  lighted  by 
diminutive  casements  beneath  the  eaves  are  preserved 
an  antique  four-post  bedstead,  carved  in  curious 
fashion,  a  case  of  drawers,  a  spinning  stool,  vari- 
ous articles  of  homespun  linen,  and  other  objects  said 
to  have  once  belonged  to  Anne  Hathaway.  The 
"last  descendant  of  the  Hathaways,"  the  soft- 
voiced  Mrs.  Baker,  who  so  long  occupied  the  cot- 
tage and  displayed  its  contents  with  such  manifest 
pleasure  and  pride,  is  dead,  and  the  pilgrim  who 
now  revisits  this  shrine  will  miss  her  kindly  wel- 
come and  her  pleasant  chat  concerning  her  belong- 
ings and  her  distinguished  visitors,  will  recall  the 
grateful  draught  she  brought  from  the  old  well  under 
the  laurel  and  will  long  cherish  her  parting  present 
of  "  rosemary  for  remembrance"  from  "sweet 
Anne's"  garden.  Not  far  from  the  Hathaway 
cottage  is  "  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  grows  " 
and  the  old  manor  house  in  whose  attic  was  the 
Catholic  chantry  where,  as  has  been  believed, 
Shakespeare  was  first  and  secretly  married. 

Other  and  farther  scenes  allure  our  steps  :  Char- 
lecote  with  its  stately  Elizabethan  hall  on  the  brink 
of  Avon,  and  its  park  whence  the  poet  did  not 

138 


Other  Shakespeare  Scenes 

steal  the  deer  —  there  were  no  deer  there  in  Shakes- 
peare's  youth  ;  the  riverside  hamlet  of  Luddington 
with  the  place  of  the  little  church  where  the  poet 
was  probably  married  with  Protestant  rites  by  Sir 
Thomas  Hunt,  erst  his  master  in  the  grammar- 
school  •  the  quaint-gabled  cottage  of  stuccoed  stone 
at  Wilmcote,  with  its  ancient  dove-cote,  spacious 
farm-yards,  and  prim  flower-garden,  where  Shake- 
speare's mother,  the  heiress  Mary  Arden,  was 
born  and  reared  ;  the  picturesque,  cross-timbered, 
dormer-windowed  Shakespeare  Hall  —  reputed 
abode  of  the  poet's  uncle  —  within  whose  ivied 
walls  Shakespeare  sojourned,  and  where,  in  the 
chamber  above  the  entrance,  local  tradition  avers, 
he  wrote  "As  You  Like  It"  on  the  confines  of 
that  forest  of  Arden  where  its  scenes  are  laid.  But 
during  all  our  loiterings  in  and  about  Stratford  — 
whether  we  float  upon  the  silver  flood  of  Avon 
or,  following  the  footsteps  of  the  bard,  we  wander 
the  willow-guarded  banks  or  thread  leafy  lanes 
fringed  with  "daisies  pied  and  violets  blue,"  or 
linger  in  flower-flecked  field,  or  rest  on  sightly  hill- 
top—  our  vision  ever  turns  to  the  dreamful  spire 
which  rises  amid  the  landscape  and  marks  the  place 
of  Shakespeare's  never-ending  rest. 


139 


BYRON'S  HARROW: 
KENSAL  GREEN 


Some  London  Shrines  —  Graves  of  Thackeray,  Hunt,  Sydney 
Smith,  Hood,  Mrs.  HatvtAorne,  Dickcns's  Little  Nell, 
etc. — Harrow  School — Eminent  Pupils  —  Byron's  School- 
room—  Relict — Resorts  —  His  School  Days  and  Friends 
—  His  Daughter's  Grave  —  His  Mary — f^ie-w  from 
Hill. 

T)ERHAPS  the  most  enjoyable  of  the  many 
•^  pleasant  outings  in  the  near  neighborhood  of 
great  London  is  the  walk  from  the  city,  by  way  of 
Paddington  and  Kensal  Green,  to  ancient  Harrow- 
on-the-Hill, —  the  Harewe-atte-Hull  of  the  Saxons. 
From  mid-London  our  way  lies  along  Oxford 
Street, —  the  highway  apostrophized  by  the  bril- 
liant Opium-Eater  as  the  "stoney-hearted  step- 
mother that  listeneth  to  the  sighs  of  orphans  and 
drinketh  the  tears  of  children," — past  Soho  Square 
where  the  truant  De  Quincey  lived  in  direst  pov- 
erty, Hazlitt  died  with  Lamb  at  his  bedside,  and 
where  we  lately  found  Sir  Walter  Besant  engaged 
upon  his  magnum  opus,  the  "  Survey  of  London," 
in  an  apartment  which  looks  out  upon  the  foliage 
of  the  square ;  past  the  place  of  the  shop  where  De 
Quincey 'purchased  his  first  opium,  and  "Closet 
Court"  where  lodged  the  Tittlebat  Titmouse  of 
Warren's  "Ten  Thousand  a  Year";  past  the 
140 


London  Literary  Shrines 

birthplace  of  Byron  and  Hanover  Square  where 
Dickens' s  Ralph  Nickleby  dwelt;  past  Wimpole 
Street  where  Elizabeth  Barrett  lived  prior  to  her 
marriage  with  Browning,  Grosvenor  Square,  some- 
time abode  of  Bulwer,  and  Orchard  Street  where 
"the  greatest  of  the  many  Smiths"  once  dwelt, 
and  where  Sheridan  wrote  "The  Duenna"  and 
"The  Rivals." 

Beyond  Oxford  Street  our  way  leads  us  to  the 
last  London  home  of  Dickens,  where  a  part  of 
"  Edwin  Drood"  was  written,  to  the  dismal  cem- 
etery where  the  sentimental  Sterne  was  laid  in  a 
grave  which  was  doomed  to  desecration,  to  the 
tomb  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  and  through  the  region 
where  once  stood  the  great  dust-heaps — "continents 
of  cinders"  Carlyle  called  them  —  among  which 
Dickens  located  the  Boffin's  Bower  of  "Our 
Mutual  Friend." 

The  first  hour  from  Hyde  Park  brings  us  to  that 
populous  retreat  of  the  dead,  Kensal  Green  Ceme- 
tery. Within  its  dull  inclosing  walls  sleep  many 
votaries  of  literature  and  art,  whose  fame  will  not 
die.  As  we  traverse  the  paths  on  the  sunny  slopes 
and  along  the  wave-like  sweeps  of  sward,  we  find 
the  revered  graves  where  these  our  dead  repose 
beneath  memorials  of  enduring  love  and  remem- 
brance. Amid  the  silence  of  the  place  we  seek  in 
vain  for  the  spot  where  sweet  little  Rosey  New- 
141 


Literary  Rambles 

come  was  here  laid  with  her  child,  "out  of  sight 
of  an  unkind  world,"  but  we  find  the  tomb  of  her 
gentle  and  genial  creator,  Thackeray,  a  modest 
tomb,  inscribed  only  with  his  name  and  years,  to 
which  he — "  the  prose  Juvenal  of  his  time  " — was 
borne  by  a  great  concourse  and  consigned  by  loving 
friends,  Browning,  Dickens,  Leech,  Cruikshank, 
Trollope,  Millais,  and  others  who  knew  his  worth, 
on  one  winter  day  thirty-eight  years  ago.  Near 
Thackeray  lies  his  school-fellow  and  life-long  friend, 
John  Leech,  who  quickly  followed  him  in  the 
eternal  march,  and  farther  away  lies  Motley  the 
historian. 

In  the  same  inclosure  we  find  the  grave  of  Mil- 
lais whom  his  friend  Du  Maurier,  the  "Thackeray 
of  a  later  age,"  celebrated  as  the  Laird  in  the  fas- 
cinating tale  of  "Trilby,"  and  as  we  stand  above 
his  ashes  we  remember  that  this  is  the  fancied 
place  of  entombment  of  poor  Trilby  herself,  shriven 
in  suffering,  and  we  wonder  how  many  of  the 
thousands  who  sleep  about  us  here  beneath  holy 
texts  and  laudatory  epitaphs  could  have  cast  a  stone 
at  her,  how  many  of  them  conformed  to  their  saintly 
ideals  as  faithfully  as  did  she  to  her  simple 
standard, — "to  think  of  other  people  before  her- 
self and  never  to  tell  lies  or  be  afraid." 

The  grave  of  the  sweet-souled  and  cheery  Leigh 
Hunt  is  made  in  a  spot  chosen  by  himself  and  is 
142 


Kensal  Green — Literary  Graves 

marked  by  his  sculptured  bust.  An  elevated  tomb 
of  freestone,  guarded  by  an  iron  railing,  is  set  in  the 
sward  near  the  north  walk  in  memory  of  the  witty 
essayist,  Sidney  Smith ;  its  inscription  describes 
him  as  "One  of  the  Best  of  Men"  and  shows  that 
he  sleeps  here  between  his  wife  and  the  son  whose 
early  death  was  the  first  great  sorrow  of  his  father's 
life.  Farther  westward  by  this  walk  we  approach 
the  neglected  and  apparently  forgotten  grave  of  the 
poet  Allan  Cunningham. 

In  the  midst  of  one  crowded  row  of  memorials 
is  the  place  where  poor  Tom  Hood  rests  after  a  life 
that  was  but  one  long  truceless  struggle  with  pain 
and  disease.  His  monument,  an  upright  altar-stone 
surmounted  by  a  bust,  was  erected  by  a  popular 
subscription  proposed  by  Eliza  Cook,  and  was  un- 
veiled by  Lord  Houghton  in  the  presence  of  a  com- 
pany of  literators.  Shrubbery  shades  his  stone, 
tall  trees  sway  in  the  breeze  above  it,  and  upon  its 
chiseled  surface  we  read  the  touching  epitaph  writ- 
ten by  himself:  "He  sang  « The  Song  of  the 
Shirt.'  "  The  gifted  Mrs.  Jameson  reposes  with 
her  parents  in  a  little-regarded  grave  not  far  away, 
and,  amid  the  maze  of  sculptured  stones,  beneath 
the  sunlit  sod  or  in  the  shade  of  sighing  foliage,  we 
find  the  sepulchers  of  Eastlake,  the  historian  of  art, 
and  Buckle,  the  historian  of  civilization,  of  Mul- 
ready  and  Gibson,  of  Tietjens  and  Charles  Mathews. 

H3 


Literary  Rambles 

Here  Americans  will  seek  out  the  spot,  on  a 
verdant  hillside  which  slopes  toward  the  rising  sun, 
where  the  wife  of  Hawthorne  and  his  first-born, 
the  unfortunate  Una, —  born  under  the  mosses  of 
the  "Old  Manse," — lie  in  the  last  long  sleep. 
Mrs.  Hawthorne  died  in  London  in  1871,  while 
preparing  for  publication  "Doctor  Grimshawe's 
Secret."  On  her  white  marble  headstone  is  in- 
scribed: "  Sophia,  Wife  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  "  ; 
on  her  footstone,  "I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the 
Life."  Six  years  after  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  death, 
poor  Una  died  in  a  cell  of  a  religious  retreat  near 
Windsor,  and  was  laid  here  beside  her  mother. 
Above  them  here  grow  ivy  from  their  far  "  Way- 
side" home  at  Concord,  and  periwinkle  —  brought 
by  Julian  Hawthorne  from  the  grave  on  * '  that  hill- 
top hearsed  with  pines,"  where  the  subtle  romancer 
lies  with  the  ocean  rolling  between  him  and  those 
whom  he  so  fondly  loved.  Another  spot  attracts  us 
in  this  city  of  the  dead  ;  it  is  the  place  where  Dickens 
once  desired  to  be  buried  beside  the  prototype  of 
the  Little  Nell  of  his  "Old  Curiosity  Shop."  She 
was  his  beloved  Mary  Hogarth,  a  younger  sister 
of  his  wife,  and  sometime  an  inmate  of  his  home  ; 
he  buried  her  here,  and  the  epitaph  which  marks 
her  gravestone  was  penned  by  his  hand  :  "Young, 
Beautiful,  and  Good,  God  in  his  mercy  numbered 
her  among  his  angels  at  the  early  age  of  seventeen. " 
144 


Eminent  Harrovians 

Beyond  the  cemetery  pleasant  ways  lead  us 
through  a  pleasant  country,  inlaid  with  patches  of 
emerald  and  gold,  which  becomes  more  hilly  as 
we  proceed,  until  we  reach  the  sloping  hilltop 
where  England  has  set  up,  like  a  pagan  shrine,  one 
of  her  ancient  seminaries.  Harrow  was  already  old 
when  the  Normans  landed  on  English  shores ;  and 
her  famous  school,  founded  in  1 5  7 1  by  a  yeoman, 
John  Lyon,  has  for  more  than  three  centuries  main- 
tamed  a  rank  scarcely  second  to  Eton,  and  has 
numbered  among  its  pupils  many  who  became  emi- 
nent as  authors  or  statesmen.  Five  Harrovians  — 
Spencer  Perceval,  Goderich,  Robert  Peel  (whose 
"Papers"  were  but  recently  published),  Aberdeen 
and  Palmerston  —  have  been  within  the  last  ninety 
years  Premiers  of  England. 

Among  the  authors  of  which  the  ancient  school 
can  boast  are  Sheridan,  Hook,  Sir  William  Jones, 
the  orientalist,  Parr,  the  critic,  personal  friend  of 
Dr.  Johnson,  Bruce,  the  Abyssinian  traveler, 
Morris,  the  Jesuit  historian,  and  Anthony  Trollope. 
The  latter,  in  his  autobiography,  speaks  with  much 
bitterness  of  his  pupilage  at  Harrow  and  of  his 
utterly  friendless  condition  there.  A  school-fellow 
has  revealed  to  us  the  reasons  for  "old  Trollope' s" 
ostracism.  A  story  was  current  that  his  father  had 
been  outlawed,  and  this  prejudiced  every  loyal 
pupil  against  him ;  besides,  his  manners  were  rude 


Literary  Rambles 

and  uncouth,  he  was  the  dullest  member  of  his 
class — "an  incorrigible  dunce" — and  the  dirtiest 
boy  both  in  dress  and  person  in  the  whole  school. 
Those  of  us  who,  earlier  in  life,  have  enjoyed  his 
many  pleasing  tales  should  be  gladdened  by  the 
further  testimony  of  Gregory's  "Memoirs"  that 
Trollope  in  his  school-days  was  honest  and  brave ; 
his  faults  were  external,  "all  the  rest  of  him  was 
right  enough."  An  ancestor  of  Thackeray  was  for 
several  years  Head  Master  of  the  school. 

But  Harrow's  real  hero  and  genius  is  Byron. 
Here  he  was  for  five  years  "as  troublesome  and 
mischievous  a  pupil  as  ever  wearied  the  heart  of  a 
master";  Harrow  is  the  beloved  "Ida"  of  the 
earlier  poems  of  his  "Hours  of  Idleness,"  the 

"Sweet  scene  of  his  youth, 
Seat  of  Friendship  and  Truth, 
Where  love  chased  each  fast  fleeting  year"  ; 

and  it  is  his  associations  with  this  place  that  have 
drawn  us  hither  in  the  progress  of  our  bookish 
prowlings. 

Most  of  the  school  buildings  are  of  comparatively 
recent  construction,  but  the  original  school-room, 
provided  for  by  the  founder  and  erected  in  the 
Decorated  Tudor  style,  remains,  and  with  its  opu- 
lence of  reminiscences  is  the  great  object  of  interest. 
It  was  to  this  historic  Fourth  Form  room,  which 
146 


Fourth  Form  Room 

was  already  old  in  Byron's  day,  that  he,  loud  warned 
by  the  bell,  resorted 

"  To  pore  o'er  the  precepts  by  pedagogues  taught." 

It  is  a  long,  narrow,  and  gloomy  apartment,  with 
high,  latticed  windows,  a  wide  fireplace,  quaint  old 
benches,  and  dark  wainscoting  which  is  thickly 
covered  with  names  of  pupils,  rudely  graven  by 
hands  that  for  generations  have  lain  in  dust. 
There  are  hundreds  of  these  names  remaining ;  nu- 
merous others,  some  of  them  old  and  famous, 
have  disappeared  beneath  modern  Smiths  and 
Browns.  When  we  reflect  that  this  defacement  of 
the  walls  was  forbidden,  we  are  appalled  by  the 
amount  of  flogging  which  the  myriad  of  autograph 
carvings  represents. 

The  name  first  shown  to  the  visitor  is  that  of 
Byron,  cut  in  large  irregular  characters  in  the  dark 
corner  at  the  right  of  the  fireplace ;  just  beneath  is 
Wildman's ;  in  the  end  wall  is  Peel's;  opposite  to 
the  fireplace  and  near  each  other  we  read  the  names, 
"S.  Perceval,"  "Haddo"  (Aberdeen),  and  "W. 
Jones."  Newer  panels  cover  now  the  ancient 
plastering  above  the  wainscot,  and  upon  these  the 
names  of  recent  Harrovians  are  graven  in  more 
regular  order.  In  the  early  days  all  the  classes  re- 
cited in  this  room;  now  only  the  Saturday  morning 
prayers  are  said  in  it,  and  it  is  otherwise  unused  save 

'47 


Literary  Rambles 

as  a  place  of  flagellation  of  the  boys  by  the  Haed 
Master. 

Among  the  few  mementos  of  Byron  preserved 
at  Harrow  are  his  sword  and  Greek  knife,  the  Pisa 
portrait  by  West,  the  revised  proofs  of  his  "Ode 
to  Napoleon  Buonaparte,"  his  volume  of  Lucanus, 
his  well-thumbed  school  copy  of  ^Eschylus,  with 
marginal  annotations  in  his  school-boy  hand.  A 
school  translation  from  this  volume  is  included 
among  his  published  works.  The  markings  in  his 
books  indicate  that  his  knowledge  of  Greek  was  so 
scant  that  he  feared  to  trust  to  his  memory  for  the 
meanings  of  the  most  common  words.  A  more  in- 
teresting object  is  pointed  out  as  "Byron's  tomb," 
a  low,  broad  tombstone  beneath  a  giant  elm  tree 
near  the  footpath  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  in 
the  ancient  churchyard.  It  bears  the  unpoetic 
name  of  Peachey,  and  is  now  protected  from  the 
eagerness  of  pilgrims  by  an  unsightly  and  unro- 
mantic  covering  of  iron  rods.  Its  situation  com- 
mands an  enchanting  view,  embracing  the  pic- 
turesque towers  of  imperial  Windsor  Castle,  the 
spires  of  Eton,  and  the  intervening  expanse  ot 
woods  and  smiling  fields.  This  is  the  spot  of 
which  he  so  often  wrote,  the  habitual  resort  of  his 
evening  leisure,  to  which  he  came 

"To  catch  the  last  gleam  of  the  sun's  setting  ray." 
148 


The  Byron  Tomb 

Here  he  sat  apart  in  a  fairyland  of  his  imagination 
and  "mused  the  twilight  hours  away,"  weaving 
his  day  dreams  into  poesy  while  he  looked  over  this 
charming  landscape  with  eyes  that  saw  it  not. 
Byron's  connection  with  this  old  tomb  is  celebrated 
in  a  school  song  which  we  once  heard  the  boys  sing- 
ing while  we  strolled  in  the  churchyard : 

"  Byron  lay,  lazily  lay, 

Hid  from  lessons  and  games  away, 

Dreaming  poetry  all  alone 

Up  a-top  of  the  Peachey  stone : 
All  in  a  fury  enters  Drury, 

Sets  him  grammar  and  Virgil  due ; 
Poets  should  n't  have,  should  n't  have,  should  n't  have, 

Poets  should  n't  have  work  to  do." 

Not  far  from  this  spot  where  Byron,  in  a  poem 
composed  upon  the  old  tomb,  wished  himself  to  be 
laid  at  last, — 

"  Forever  stretched  beneath  this  mantling  shade, 
Pressed  by  the  turf  where  once  my  childhood  played, 
Wrapt  by  the  soil  that  veils  the  spot  I  loved, 
Mixed  with  the  earth  o'er  which  my  footsteps  moved," — 

repose  the  ashes  of  his  natural  daughter,  Allegra. 
A  score  of  years  after  his  school-days  were  ended 
he  wrote  from  Italy  to  his  friend  and  publisher, 
Murray,  describing  this  beloved  spot  of  his  youth 
and  his  associations  with  it,  and  desiring  to  have  the 
149 


Literary  Rambles 

child's  remains  entombed  here.  Perhaps  he  then 
thought  he  would  finally  return  to  this  place.  At 
the  age  of  five  the  child  had  died  at  the  convent  of 
Bagna  Cavallo,  in  the  Romagna,  where  she,  despite 
the  protests  of  her  mother  (the  "Claire"  of  Shel- 
ley's journal  and  half-sister  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft 
Shelley),  had  been  placed  to  be  educated.  Near 
the  font  in  the  old  church  behind  the  Peachey 
tomb,  Allegra,  the  sinless  child  of  sin,  reposes 
beneath  the  inscription: 

"I  shall  go  to  her,  but  she  shall  not  return  to  me." 

At  the  side  of  the  altar,  within  the  communion 
rails,  Sir  Samuel  Garth,  the  poet  of  "The  Dispen- 
sary," is  interred.  The  church  itself  is  an  object 
of  interest,  dating  from  the  time  of  William  the 
Conqueror,  having  been  founded  by  Lanfranc  and 
consecrated  by  Anselm.  By  reason  of  its  com- 
manding and  conspicuous  site  it  has  long  been  called 
"the  visible  church." 

Here  at  Harrow  began  some  of  the  most  fervid 
and  enduring  friendships  of  Byron's  life,  notably 
that  with  Lord  Clare,  which  lasted  until  his  death. 
The  stanzas  of  "Hours  of  Idleness"  commencing, 
"Friend  of  my  Youth,"  were  addressed  to  Clare. 
The  early  death  of  John  Wingfield,  a  form-fellow, 
occasioned  the  "Epitaph  on  a  Friend"  in  the 
same  collection.  Another  poem,  written  here  upon 
150 


Byron's  School-Friends 

the  old  tomb,  was  applied  to  the  Duke  of  Dorset, 
who  seems  to  have  stood  next  to  Clare  in  Byron's 
affections.  On  the  fly-leaf  of  one  of  his  school- 
books  the  bold,  boyish  hand  of  Byron  recorded, 
"Tom  Wildman  sits  on  my  left  hand,"  and  in 
letters  written  many  years  afterward  Byron  recalls 
with  manifest  pleasure  their  close  relations  in  the 
forms  of  Harrow.  This  same  Wildman,  a  hero 
of  Waterloo  and  the  Peninsular  war,  purchased  and 
rescued  from  ruin  the  bankrupt  poet's  ancestral 
Newstead.  With  another  form-fellow,  Robert 
Peel,  who  was  just  Byron's  age,  he  was  less  inti- 
mate, but  upon  one  occasion  he  offered  to  take  half 
the  flogging  Peel  was  enduring  from  his  fag-master. 
It  has  been  said  that,  although  less  proficient  in 
some  branches  at  school,  Byron  was  thought  to  be 
superior  to  Peel  in  general  information. 

School  tradition  says  that  George  Sinclair,  the 
intellectual  prodigy  of  the  class,  used  to  write 
Byron's  exercises,  and  had  his  battles  fought  for 
him  in  return.  The  poet  preferred  "hockey  to 
Horace  and  'duck-puddle'  to  Helicon."  It 
must  be  confessed  that  his  most  brilliant  successes  at 
Harrow  were  pugilistic  rather  than  scholarly ;  one 
form-fellow  testifies  :  "I  have  seen  him  fight  by 
the  hour  like  a  Trojan,  and  stand  up  against  the 
disadvantage  of  his  lameness  with  all  the  spirit  of  an 
ancient  combatant."  But  his  battles  were  as  often 


Literary  Rambles 

those  of  younger  and  weaker  boys  as  his  own,  and 
the  scene  of  his  exploits,  the  old  "milling-ground," 
where  he  fought  the  bullies  of  the  school,  is  visited 
with  interest.  Despite  his  lameness,  he  played  a 
creditable  part  in  athletic  sports,  and  was  one  of  the 
Harrow  eleven  in  the  cricket  match  with  Eton  in 
1805. 

In  after  years  Byron  often  referred  to  the  latter 
part  of  his  stay  here  as  being  the  happiest  period  of 
his  life,  and  his  grief  over  his  final  departure  from 
the  school  found  plaintive  expression  in  his  verse. 
In  a  note  to  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage"  he 
wrote,  "I  hated  Harrow  until  the  last  year  and  a 
half,  and  then  I  liked  it.  I  so  much  disliked  leaving 
Harrow  that  it  broke  my  rest  for  the  last  quarter 
with  counting  the  days  that  remained."  His 
early  unhappiness  in  the  school  was  largely  due  to 
an  aversion  against  his  first  teacher,  Henry  Drury, 
who  apparently  had  good  reasons  for  dissatisfaction 
with  his  pupil;  for  the  lad  who  had  been  styled 
"the  little  deevil  Geordie  Byron"  in  Scotland  had 
experienced  no  change  of  heart,  and  the  Harrow 
masters  complained  of  his  idleness,  negligence,  and 
propensity  to  make  others  disregard  their  employ- 
ments,—  Drury  even  spoke  of  him  as  a  blackguard 
and  threatened  his  expulsion, —  yet  they  recognized 
his  talents,  and  one  of  them  predicted  for  him  a 
career  as  an  orator.  Byron  declined  an  invitation 
152 


School  Days — Byron's  Mary 

(usually  deemed  a  command)  to  dine  with  the 
Head  Master,  explaining  that  he  "should  never 
think  of  asking  Dr.  Butler  to  dine  with  him  at  New- 
stead,"  and  some  of  his  first  rhymes  were  bitter 
satires  upon  his  teachers. 

It  was  during  a  Harrow  vacation  that  Byron 
met  and  lost  his  heart  to  Mary  Ann  Chaworth, — 
his  "bright  star  of  Annesley,"  the  "Mary"  of 
many  poems,  "the  maiden"  of  his  "Dream," — 
and  it  is  presumable  that  his  "  ponderings  "  upon 
the  old  tomb  were  of  a  different  character  there- 
after, as  the  many  stanzas  he  there  wrote  to  and 
about  her  were  inspired  by  a  more  perturbing 
emotion  than  the  boyish  friendships  and  antipathies 
which  had  before  engaged  his  muse. 

His  ill-fated  passion  for  Miss  Chaworth  colored 
all  his  future  life,  influenced  the  character  and  the 
ineffable  beauty  of  some  of  his  best  work,  and  drew 
from  him  those  exquisite  stanzas  which  have  en- 
shrined her,  like  Petrarch's  Laura,  among  the  hero- 
ines of  song. 

A  description  of  Byron's  personal  appearance  as 
a  Harrow  school-boy  is  of  interest.  His  adult  face 
was  undoubtedly  one  of  the  handsomest,  and  it 
seems  to  have  been  assumed  that  he  was,  therefore, 
a  handsome  lad.  Irving  avers  that,  "  though  boy- 
ish in  years,  he  had  a  countenance  of  remarkable 
beauty,"  and  most  of  the  biographers  have  led  us 


Literary  Rambles 

to  infer  that  the  boy  bore  in  his  face  such  indica- 
tions of  beauty  and  genius  that  the  taste  or  discern- 
ment of  Miss  Chaworth  was  somehow  at  fault,  else 
she  would  have  fancied  him  despite  his  "fewer 
summers."  Now  this  is  the  manner  of  boy  he 
was  when  he  essayed  to  make  love  to  her :  ugly, 
fat,  lame,  painfully  stiff  and  bashful,  inordinately 
vain  and  conceited,  with  manners  rough  and  odd  and 
with  speech  thickened  by  a  Scottish  dialect.  Miss 
Pigot  of  Southwell,  who  knew  him  at  the  time, 
says  of  him  :  "With  his  cheeks  encased  in  fat  and 
his  hair  combed  straight  over  his  forehead,  he 
looked  such  a  perfect  'gaby'  that  I  could  not  for- 
bear to  tell  him  so."  She  found  him  "insuffer- 
able" and  a  "horror."  It  is  scarcely  surprising 
that  the  beautiful  and  mature  heiress  of  Annesley 
preferred  a  gentleman  of  high  social  position,  cul- 
ture, and  manly  accomplishments,  like  handsome 
Jack  Musters,  to  this  boy.  Her  choice  was  the 
natural  and  rational  one,  and  resulted  by  no  means 
so  miserably  as  the  world  of  readers  has  supposed. 
During  Byron's  last  year  at  Harrow  the  lady  mar- 
ried, leaving  the  poet  a  prey  to  "feelings  which  a 
fiend  might  pity." 

The  present  (ninth)  Lord  Byron,  grandnephew 
of  Captain  George  Byron,  the  poet's  cousin  and 
successor,  was  a  Harrow  boy.  So,  also,  was  the 
poet's  grandson,  the  surviving  son  of  Ada  Byron, 


View  from  Harrow 

who  inherited  a  peerage  from  the  poet's  widow, 
and  who,  a  few  years  since,  succeeded  to  the  earl- 
dom of  Lovelace  through  the  death  of  Byron's 
son-in-law. 

From  the  elevation  of  the  old  church  we  over- 
look the  landscape  Byron  knew  so  well,  embracing 
great  London  with  its  suburbs,  much  of  five  of 
England's  populous  counties,  and  many  miles  of  the 
course  of  the  Thames  curving  among  green  meadows 
and  plantations.  Southward  and  eastward  we  be- 
hold the  spires  of  the  metropolis,  the  stately  dome 
of  its  cathedral,  the  palatial  towers  of  Westminster, 
the  sparkling  roofs  of  the  Crystal  Palace,  and  an  ex- 
panse of  beautiful  country,  diversified  with  parks, 
villages,  and  picturesque  seats,  extending  to  the 
wavelike  line  of  Surrey  hills ;  westward,  near  the 
verge  of  the  horizon,  rise  the  battlemented  towers 
of  Windsor,  and  away  to  the  north  stretch  ranges  of 
verdure-clad  hills. 

Other  indicated  objects  interest  us  more :  the 
ancient  mansion  in  which  Wolsey  lived  when  rector 
of  Harrow ;  the  "ivy -mantled  tower"  of  Stoke 
Pogis  church,  which  shadows  the  tomb  of  Gray  and 
the  country  churchyard  that  inspired  his  ' '  Elegy ' ' ; 
the  village  church  where  Handel  was  once  organist, 
and  the  smithy,  whose  anvil-music  suggested  to 
him  the  idea  of  his  " Harmonious  Blacksmith"; 
the  grammar-school  on  Highgate  Hill,  beneath  which 

'55 


Literary  Rambles 

poor  Coleridge  now  sleeps  without  the  aid  of  the 
baneful  narcotic  which  wrought  his  ruin ;  the  gray 
tower  of  Hampstead  church,  and  the  Heath  where 
Pope,  Goldsmith,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  Du 
Maurier  walked,  and  where  Keats  and  Hogarth, 
Shelley  and  Leigh  Hunt,  Johnson  and  Akenside 
sometime  dwelt. 


THE  GRAVE  OF 
CHILDE   HAROLD 


Hucknall-  Torkard —  Market-place  —  Ancient  Church  Toiver 
— Recollections  of  Byron" s  Funeral — Perfunctory  Cere- 
monial—  The  Byron  Vault  and  Contents — The  Poet  and 
Ada — Joe  Murray  —  Byron"  s  Monument — His  Daugh- 
ter's—  Notable  fist  tors  —  La  Guiccioli,  etc. 

TVyTANY  of  our  literary  rambles  have  been  in  the 
•*•*  track  of  the  Pilgrim-poet :  from  his  birth- 
place in  London  and  other  spots  connected  with 
his  career  in  that  metropolis,  from  the  baronial 
"hall  of  his  fathers"  and  the  loved  haunts  of  his 
youth,  we  have  followed  the  devious  course  of  his 
wanderings  over  half  a  continent,  to  many  a 
place  that  was  a  scene  of  his  life  and  a  theme  of 
his  song.1  From  these  we  turn  to  trace 

"  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last," 

to  end  our  Byron  pilgrimage  and  doff  our  "  sandal- 
shoon"  and  " scallop-shell"  at  his  grave. 

Two  miles  southward  from  Byron's  ancestral 
Newstead,  and  as  far  from  the  fair  abode  of  Mary 
Ann  Chaworth,  his  "bright  morning  star  of  An- 
nesley,"  is  Hucknall-Torkard,  a  dull,  straggling 

1  See  "A  Literary  Pilgrimage." 
157 


Literary  Rambles 

town,  which  the  Count  Gamba,  Byron's  com- 
panion in  arms,  once  thought  resembled  the  rude 
Grecian  village  in  which  the  poet  died.  In  the 
ancient  parish  church,  dedicated  long  centuries  ago 
to  St.  Mary  Magdalene,  lies  the  mortal  part  of  the 
immortal  author  of  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage." 
The  square,  gray  church  tower  rises  from  an  in- 
closure  which  the  lapsing  centuries  have  thickly 
strewn  with  graves.  Quaint  mementos  of  affec- 
tion and  grief,  old  gravestones  and  monuments  all 
aslant  and  awry,  crowd  each  other  even  to  the  wall 
which  divides  this  God's  Acre  from  the  noisy 
market-place  of  the  colliery  town. 

Through  a  wicket  in  the  wall  we  escape,  by 
a  single  step,  from  the  turbulent  scene  without, 
into  the  retreat  of  those  who  have  finished  their 
course  and  for  whom  life's  fever  is  forever  past. 
But  the  discordant  cries  of  marketmen  and  the 
chaffering  of  the  rough  collier  and  the  female  of  his 
kind  about  the  defects  of  the  wares  exposed  upon 
the  stalls  come  to  our  ears  as  we  sit  among  the 
dead,  and  follow  us  into  the  sacred  fane  whose 
chancel  abuts  upon  the  public  mart. 

Some  portions  of  the  church  have  been  restored 
and  beautified  since  the  poet  was  interred  here,  the 
chancel  has  been  widened  somewhat  and  transepts 
erected  between  it  and  the  nave,  but  the  Byron 
vault  has  not  been  disturbed,  the  western  end  of 

158 


imbles 

ret    Gamba,  Byron's    corn- 
thought  resembled  the  rude 
rich  the  poet  died.     In  the 
dedicated  long  centuries  ago 
it,  lies  the  mortal  part  of  the 
'  larold's  Pilgrimage." 
ver  rises  from  an  in- 
^•m   d  ave   thickly 

affec- 
•nts  all 


into  the 

course  an  past. 

But  the  :i;*cordant  cries  ot'  marketmen  and  the 
chaffcriz!!?;  of  'he  rough  c<  .ale  of  his 

kind  ahoui  \'ns  defects  of  the  wares  expoaed  upon 
the  stalls  come  to  our  ears  as  we  ait  ansong  the 
dead,  an,.  ^  into  the  uc  whose 

chancel  ab-  ;e  public  mart. 

Some  p  mrch  have  been  restored 

and  K  .is  interred  here,  the 

chancel  has  been  -•-  idctuvj  somewhat  and  transepts 
erected  bftwee:.  ;ave,  but  the  Byron 

vault  has  not  been  Jmorbed,  the  western  end  of 


The  Byron  Church 

the  edifice  remains  unchanged,  and  the  superb  Nor- 
man tower, —  for  which  has  been  claimed  an  an- 
tiquity of  eight  centuries, —  with  its  massive  walls 
and  little  spires,  its  stone  battlements  and  mullioned 
windows,  is  dark  and  grim  with  age.  Its  fine 
proportions  and  the  air  of  stately  dignity  which  age 
has  imparted  would,  in  any  situation,  make  it  an 
impressive  structure,  but  the  low  roofs  which  adjoin 
it  and  the  general  meanness  of  its  environment 
render  it  doubly  imposing  here.  We  think  it  even 
beautiful  this  summer  afternoon  as  the  sunshine  gleams 
aslant  through  its  windows  and  adown  its  fissured 
and  weather-stained  walls,  while  we  contemplate 
it  from  our  seat  among  the  crumbling  gravestones. 
Once,  years  ago,  as  we  rested  here  upon  the 
turf,  sketching  the  picturesque  old  tower,  we  were 
accosted  by  an  aged  and  solemn-visaged  personage, 
whose  sedate  manner  disposed  us  to  temporary 
belief,  and  who  had  much  to  tell  about  Byron  and 
his  family.  He  gravely  assured  us  that  Bryon's 
daughter,  Lady  Lovelace,  had  a  club-foot  precisely 
like  her  father's,  and  that  the  poet  sent  to  Lady 
Byron  the  poem  beginning  with  the  lines, 

"  Fare  thee  well !  and  if  forever, 
Still  forever,  fare  thee  well," 

inclosed  in  a    grocer's   bill   upon    the   margin    of 
which  he  had  written  :   "  Please  look  over  this  bill 


Literary  Rambles 

—  I  don't  think  we  had  so  much  cheese."  This, 
our  informant  explained,  he  told  upon  the  authority 
of  one  who  had  seen  both  the  papers.  Other  state- 
ments of  his,  however,  concerning  matters  of  which 
he  had  personal  knowledge,  we  were  subsequently 
able  to  verify.  He  had  assisted  in  preparing  the 
vault  for  the  reception  of  the  body  of  Byron,  and 
was  the  last  person  to  enter  it  before  the  coffin  was 
deposited  there.  The  vault  then  contained  many 
detached  skulls  and  bones  of  ancient  Byrons,  and, 
along  one  side  of  it,  fifteen  or  more  lead  coffins  were 
piled  upon  each  other  until  the  lowermost  were  flat- 
tened and  bent  out  of  shape  by  the  weight  of  those 
above.  They  had  been  corded  up  in  this  manner 
to  clear  a  space  so  that  the  poet  and  his  mother 
could  be  placed  side  by  side.  This  old  man  had 
also  witnessed  the  approach  of  Byron's  funeral 
train  from  Nottingham.  It  consisted  of  eleven 
carriages,  the  only  one  of  them  belonging  to  the 
local  gentry  being  that  of  Colonel  Wildman,  the 
then  owner  of  Newstead,  who  had  been  the  poet's 
form-fellow  at  Harrow-on-the-Hill. 

The  octogenarian  remembered  that  the  little 
church  was  not  filled  at  Byron's  funeral.  Few  of 
the  best  families  of  the  vicinage  were  represented, 
and,  besides  the  poet's  intimate  friend  Lord  Hob- 
house,  his  solicitor  Hanson,  the  devoted  Fletcher, 
and  the  servant  Tita,  who  had  attended  the  body 
1 60 


Byron's  Funeral  and  Tomb 

from  Greece,  the  assemblage  was  mostly  composed 
of  the  hired  attendants  and  of  the  idle  and  curious 
persons  of  the  lower  class  of  the  town  who  were 
attracted  by  the  spectacle.  It  was  afterward  a 
matter  of  local  comment  that  the  officiating  clergy- 
man read  the  burial  service  in  a  perfunctory  man- 
ner, and  this  was  explained  by  the  supposition  that 
he  "felt  himself  disgraced  by  having  to  bury  an 
atheist." 

Entrance  to  the  church  is  through  a  picturesque 
porch  of  ponderous  timbers,  beneath  which  is  an 
arched  doorway  and  a  heavy  studded  oaken  door 
with  massive  locks.  We  are  permitted  to  enter 
alone.  Traversing  the  aisle,  we  approach  the  chan- 
cel and  stand  with  bared  heads  above  the  ashes  of 
Byron.  A  slab  of  colored  marble,  sent  by 
the  King  of  his  beloved  Greece, —  the  land  whose 
praises  he  chanted  and  for  whose  liberty  he  gave 
his  life, —  is  set  in  the  floor  within  the  chancel,  just 
at  the  top  of  the  second  step,  to  mark  the  spot  be- 
neath which  he  is  laid.  The  stone  is  inlaid  with 
a  circlet  of  brass  laurel  leaves  which  inclose  the 
word  Byron.  As  we  stand  above  the  spot,  the 
rich  light  from  one  of  the  Gothic  stained  windows 
streams  in  upon  the  name  and  seems  to  glorify  it. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  poet  once  ex- 
pected to  be  buried  beside  the  dog  Boatswain  in 
the  old  Abbey  garden  at  Newstead.  His  will, 
K  161 


Literary  Rambles 

made  in  1811,  contained  explicit  directions  to 
that  end,  and  in  the  course  of  some  repairs  made 
some  years  ago  to  the  foundations  of  the  dog's 
monument,  it  was  discovered  that  Byron  had  made 
careful  preparation  for  his  own  entombment  there 
—  even  the  stone  slab  and  trestles,  upon  which  his 
body  was  to  lie,  between  his  dog  and  his  valet, 
were  found  in  place  within  a  spacious  vault  of 
dressed  stone.  But  the  sale  of  Newstead  in  1 8 1 8 
terminated  this  plan.  In  a  minor  poem,  written 
prior  to  the  misanthropic  determination  to  be 
buried  with  his  dog,  Byron  plaintively  breathes  the 
wish  that  his  dust  may  at  last  mingle  with  that  of 
his  mother ;  accordingly,  after  the  authorities  of 
Westminster  had  refused  him  sepulture,  this  humble 
temple  and  the  ancient  tomb  of  his  family  received 
him,  and  here,  after  the  stress  of  his  fevered  life,  he 
sleeps 

"The  dreamless  sleep  that  lulls  the  dead." 

About  him  repose  the  moldering  remains  of 
many  generations  of  his  line,  and  it  is  believed  that 
there  is  an  older  vault  beneath  in  which  still  more 
ancient  Byrons  are  entombed.  Ponderous  flag- 
stones have  long  closed  the  entrance  to  the  poet's 
vault,  but  the  sacristan  had  been  within  it  to  assist 
at  the  entombment  of  Ada  Byron,  and  found  it  to 
be  of  considerable  size.  In  the  center  Byron's 
162 


Ada  Byron's  Interment 

coffin,  covered  with  plain  black  velvet,  rests  upon 
a  bench  of  stone  three  feet  in  height,  and  on  the 
floor  at  his  feet  is  a  frail  receptacle  holding  his 
heart  and  brain,  which  were  removed  at  the  au- 
topsy. 

After  Byron's  interment  it  was  rumored  that  the 
heart  was  not  here,  that  the  Greeks  had  retained 
it,  and  bore  the  casket  containing  the  precious  relic 
into  then-  battles  as  the  Jews  carried  the  Ark.  A 
narrative  of  one  of  their  revolutionary  conflicts  avers 
that,  in  their  hurried  retreat  before  the  victorious 
Turks,  they  lost  the  casket  in  a  fen.  The  coffin 
of  his  mother  lies  upon  the  right  of  the  poet,  on  a 
spot  which  he  selected  and  prepared,  and  that  of 
his  daughter  Ada  is  upon  his  left.  From  her  death- 
bed she  wrote  to  Colonel  Wildman  to  entreat  that  her 
body  might  be  removed  to  Newstead,  and  thence 
taken  to  be  deposited  beside  that  of  her  illustrious 
parent.  Accordingly,  her  remains  lay  for  several 
days,  covered  with  a  pall  of  purple  velvet,  hi  the 
princely  drawing-room  of  the  Abbey  —  the  room 
which  had  sometime  been  the  refectory  of  the 
monks,  and  the  hay-loft  of  the  poet's  predecessor, 
"the  wicked  Lord  Byron."  Ada's  widowed 
husband,  who  for  forty-two  years  survived  her, 
was  but  a  few  years  ago  laid  in  his  own  family 
burial-place  in  Kent. 

Not  far  from  the  poet  sleeps  his  faithful  valet, 
163 


Literary  Rambles 

Joe  Murray,  who  was  to  have  been  buried  with 
Byron  and  the  dog,  and  who,  after  his  master's  in- 
terment in  the  church,  declined  to  be  sepulchered 
"alone  with  the  dog"  in  the  vault  beneath  Boat- 
swain's monument;  two  or  three  rods  away  is  the 
moldering  turf-heap  which  marks  the  resting-place 
of  the  mysterious  "  Little  White  Lady  "  of  Irving' s 
touching  narrative,  whose  insane  admiration  for 
Byron  induced  her  in  life  to  haunt  the  scenes  amid 
which  he  had  lived,  and  to  desire  in  death  to  be 
placed  near  the  idol  of  her  imagination. 

Upon    the  chancel    wall   is    a    tablet   of  dove- 
colored  marble  which  bears  the  inscription  : 

"  In  the  vault  beneath, 
Where  many  of  his  Ancestors  and  his  Mother 

are  buried, 

lie  the  remains  of 

GEORGE  GORDON  NOEL  BYRON, 

Lord  Byron  of  Rochdale, 

The  author  of  '  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage.' 

He  was  born  in  London,  on  the 

22  of  January,  1788. 
He  died  at  Missolonghi,  in  Western  Greece, 

on  the  19  of  April,  1824, 
Engaged  in  the  glorious  attempt  to  restore  that 
Country  to  her  ancient  freedom  and  renown." 

This  tablet  was  erected  by  his  half-sister  Augusta, 
wife  of  Colonel  Leigh,  to  whom  some  of  the  poet's 
tenderest  stanzas  were  addressed,  and  who  was  the 
164 


Byron  Monuments  and  Relics 

subject  of  the  cruel  but  ephemeral  "  Byron  Scan- 
dal" of  an  American  authoress.  The  stone  is 
simple  and  cheap  compared  with  some  monuments 
set  in  these  walls  to  commemorate  thrifty  villagers 
unheard  of  outside  the  parish.  By  Byron's  tablet 
we  once  saw  a  chaplet  of  faded  laurel,  lovingly 
placed  by  our  "  Bard  of  the  Sierras,"  Joaquin  Miller, 
and  a  wreath  said  to  have  been  sent  by  Byron's 
granddaughter,  Lady  Anne  Blunt,  author  of  some 
charming  books  of  travel  and  wife  of  the  daring 
explorer  Wilfred  S.  Blunt,  whose  book  of  "Son- 
nets" was  largely  written  while  he  was  suffering 
imprisonment  for  his  zealous  espousal  of  the  cause 
of  Home  Rule  for  Ireland.  Here,  too,  was  pre- 
served a  piece  of  embroidery  representing  the  Byron 
coat  of  arms,  which  lay  upon  the  poet's  coffin  at 
the  funeral.  For  years  it  hung  loosely  tacked  on 
the  wall,  and  Curtis  Jackson,  a  rector  sometime 
incumbent  here,  caused  its  removal  and,  as  he  sup- 
posed, its  destruction.  We  owe  its  preservation  to 
the  broader  sympathies  of  the  sexton  who  concealed 
it  in  his  cottage  near  the  churchyard.  The  sable 
hangings  which  draped  the  pulpit  at  Byron's  funeral 
are  said  to  have  been  torn  down  and  stolen  a  few 
days  after  the  ceremony. 

Byron's  Ada,   "sole  daughter  of  his  house  and 
heart,"   is  commemorated  by  a  smaller  tablet  set 
in  the  wall  near  his  own  and  surmounted  by  an 
165 


Literary  Rambles 

armorial  device.  The  inscription  shows  that  she 
and  her  father  died  at  the  same  early  age  of  thirty- 
six. 

Page   54  of  the  dilapidated  old  parish  register 
contains  the  record  of  the  poet's  burial ; 

"Name,  George  Gordon  Noel  Byron,  Lord  Byron  ; 
Abode,  Died  at  Missolonghi  in  Western  Greece,   Apr.  19, 
1824; 

Buried,  1 6th  of  July  ; 

Age,  Thirty-six  ; 

Ceremony  performed  by  Rev.  Charles  Nixon." 

Another  page  records  that  Ada  died  November  17, 
1852,  at  No.  69  Cumberland  Place,  London, 
and  was  interred  here  December  3,  the  burial 
service  being  conducted  by  the  bigot  who  ordered 
the  destruction  of  the  armorial  memento  of  her 
father.  A  worn  parchment  copy  of  the  inscription 
upon  the  coffin  of  the  poet's  mother,  "The 
Honorable  Catherine  Gordon  Byron,"  has  been 
preserved  here.  It  recites  that  she  was  a  "lineal 
descendant  of  the  Earl  of  Huntley  and  Lady  Jean 
Stuart,  daughter  of  King  James  the  First,  of  Scot- 
land. Died  in  the  forty-sixth  year  of  her  age,  August 
first,  1811." 

For  centuries  this  was  the  chapel  of  the  Byrons 
and   the    site   of  their   ancient   square   pew   is  yet 
pointed  out.      The  oldest   memorial  we  observed 
1 66 


Visitors — Ada — Augusta — Guiccioli 

upon  the  walls  is  that  of  "Sir  John  Byron  the 
Little,  with  the  great  Beard,"  whose  portrait  we 
had  seen  at  the  Abbey. 

The  tomb  of  Byron  is  not,  like  Shakspere's,  a 
popular  place  of  pilgrimage.  Visitors  to  this  shrine 
have  ever  been  few,  and  even  his  own  family  and 
personal  friends  strangely  neglected  it.  The  cousin 
who  inherited  Byron's  title  "  never  saw  or  sought 
his  grave ' '  ;  the  daughter  of  his  house  and  heart  and 
the  adored  sister  who  enjoyed  his  fortune  came  but 
once ;  his  wife,  the  mother  of  his  child,  came  not 
at  all. 

Not  many  years  ago  the  visits  of  his  sister  and 
daughter  were  yet  remembered  by  a  few  residents 
of  the  neighborhood.  Mrs.  Leigh  was  described 
as  having  little  pretension  to  personal  beauty  ;  but 
her  face,  saddened  by  the  misconduct  of  a  son, 
habitually  wore  an  expression  of  gentleness  and 
amiability  which  more  than  atoned  for  its  plainness. 
Ada  Byron's  visit  was  made  but  a  year  or  two 
before  her  own  death ;  she  passed  a  few  days  with 
Colonel  Wildman  at  the  Abbey,  and  was  remem- 
bered by  those  who  saw  her  here  as  bearing  little 
resemblance  in  feature  to  her  father.  She  was  said 
to  have  been  habitually  abstracted  and  often  gloomy 
in  manner,  was  rather  unattractive  efface  and  so  care- 
less of  her  dress  and  personal  adornment  that  it  was 
remarked  that  her  maid  seemed  more  "genteelly" 
167 


Literary  Rambles 

attired  than  herself.  The  sexton  once  told  an 
American  tourist  that  Ada  seemed  distrait  when  she 
visited  her  father's  tomb ;  she  deported  herself 
most  strangely,  glanced  for  a  moment  at  the  pave- 
ment above  the  vault,  inquired  "which  way  his 
head  lay,"  and  then  hurried  away  without  another 
word. 

Very  different  was  the  demeanor  of  another 
visitor  who,  years  afterward,  came  to  this  place  : 
she  was  an  elderly  lady  of  distinguished  appearance 
and  great  personal  charm,  who  spoke  with  a  foreign 
accent  and  was  afterward  ascertained  to  be  the 
Guiccioli,  Byron's  famous  Italian  enchantress.  She 
came  with  liveried  servants  and  splendid  equipage, 
and  begged  to  be  left  alone  in  the  church.  The 
sexton,  reentering  an  hour  later,  found  her  greatly 
agitated  and  disheveled,  kneeling  with  streaming 
eyes  upon  the  stones  which  cover  the  dust  of  the 
lover  for  whom  she  had  gladly  sacrificed  her  repu- 
tation forty  years  before.  At  the  time  of  her 
visit  she  was  the  widow  of  De  Boissy,  and  was 
engaged  upon  her  "Recollections"  of  Byron, 
the  book  which  was  the  provoking  cause  of  the 
publication  of  Mrs.  Stowe's  "True  Story  of  Lady 
Byron's  Life." 

As  we  stand  at  the  poet's  tomb  we  reflect  that 
the  gifted  being,  whose  ashes  are  under  our  feet, 
sacrificed  his  life  in  an  heroic  endeavor  to  further 
168 


Byron  Worthy  of  Westminster 

a  righteous  cause,  and  that  when  he  broke  away 
from  all  his  insincere  course  to  devote  himself  to 
the  redemption  of  Greece,  Lady  Byron  believed 
she  saw  an  answer  to  her  prayers,  and  that  "  the 
angel  in  him"  at  last  stood  revealed.  Was  he 
unworthy  of  sepulture  in  Westminster  ?  Then 
he  was  equally  unfit  for  burial  here.  This  sacred 
fane  had  no  kingly  monuments,  no  gilded  chapels, 
no  architectural  splendors,  no  imposing  displays 
of  princely  or  priestly  pageantry ;  it  was  of  the 
smallest  and  simplest,  its  walls  were  plain  and 
somber,  but  it  was  as  holy  as  Westminster,  and  it 
should  have  been  held  as  sacred  against  the  "  profa- 
nation." 

We  are  content  to  find  Byron  entombed  with 
his  kindred,  beside  the  few  he  truly  loved,  amid 
the  scenes  he  once  inhabited,  and  to  believe  that 
in  long  years  to  come  an  increasing  number  of  the 
myriads  his  poetry  enriches  and  delights  will  fare 
to  this  place  as  to  a  shrine,  and  that  the  fame  of 
him  who  reposes  here  will  endure  when  the  many 
base  and  sordid  whose  memorials  encumber  the 
walls  of  England's  national  mausoleum  have  sunk 
into  merited  and  merciful  oblivion. 


169 


THE  AYRSHIRE    BURNSLAND 


Shrines  by  the  Way  —  Old  Ayr  —  Tarn  o'  Shanter  Inn  — 
Allvway  Cottage  —  Relict  —  Haunted  Kirk  —  Brig 
o'  Doon  —  Mount  Oliphant  —  Lochlea  —  Tarbolton  — 
Homes  of  Bonnie  Jean  and  Mary  Morison  —  Poosie 
Nansie's  —  Hamilton's — Churchyard  of  Holy  Fair  — 
Mossgiel  —  Scenes  of  Poems  —  Shanter  Farm. 

T7ARLIER  jaunts  have  been  through  the  Niths- 
^"*  dale  haunts  of  the  ploughman-bard,  or  have 
led  us  to  scenes  of  the  brief  life  of  his  "  Highland 
Mary,"  and  left  us  at  her  grave  by  the  busy  Clyde.1 
Strolling  southward  now  from  Glasgow,  birth- 
place of  Campbell  and  burial-place  of  Motherwell 
and  Edward  Irving,  we  linger  in  places  where 
poor  Tannahill  toiled  and  sang,  we  seek  the  village 
where  was  born  the  hero  of  Jane  Porter's  romance, 
and  reach,  a  way  beyond,  the  crescentic  sweep  of 
shining  beach  which  borders  Ayrshire's  seaward 
side.  Here  is  Irvine,  where  the  poet  Montgomery 
was  born,  and  where  Burns,  the  song  laureate  of 
the  world,  early  essayed  to  establish  a  business  in 
flax,  a  venture  abruptly  terminated  by  a  fire  that 
destroyed  the  shop  during  a  New  Year  carousal  and 
left  him  "  like  a  true  poet,  not  worth  a  sixpence." 
Following  the  curving  coast,  with  the  peaks  of 
Arran  in  view  across  the  mountain-bound  Firth  on 

1  See  "A  Literary  Pilgrimage." 
IJO 


Ayr  —  Tam  o'  Shanter  Inn 

our  right  ancf  the  rock  of  Ailsa  rising  out  of  the  sea 
before  us,  we  come  to  Ayr,  the  capital  town  of 
that  bonnie  region  that  has  been  forever  conse- 
crated by  the  life  and  genius  of  Burns.  The  bard 
knew  well  this  "ancient  brugh."  In  passionate 
life  he  often  walked  these  olden  thoroughfares,  his 
eyes  often  beheld  the  quaint  gray-gabled  houses  yet 
standing  in  some  of  the  streets.  In  Ayr  he  lived 
and  studied  for  a  little  time  with  Murdoch;  here  he 
attended  the  same  market,  at  the  end  of  the  "Auld 
Brig,"  to  which  his  own  Tarn  o'  Shanter  re- 
paired, and  he  doubtless  often  drank  in  the  same 
dingy  tavern  on  the  high  street.  The  "  Brigs  of 
Ayr"  still  arch  the  river;  the  ' ' drowsy  Dungeon 
clock ' '  of  the  poem  numbers  the  hours  in  a  modern 
Wallace  Tower  hard  by,  and  not  far  away  in  the 
same  street  we  find  the  inn  where  Tam  and  Souter 
Johnny  "got  fou'  thegither."  It  is  a  plain  little 
two-storied  fabric  with  plastered  walls  and  sanded 
floors;  in  a  dusky  low-studded  upper  room,  reached 
by  a  narrow  stairway,  we  see  the  large  fireplace 
before  which  Tam  and  his  drouthy  crony  sat 
"bousing  at  the  nappy"  on  one  eventful  night, 
and  here  we  were  once  privileged  to  sip  our  ale 
from  the  self-same  "caup" — a  hardwood  mug 
encircled  with  silver  —  which  Tam  too  often 
drained.  Ayr's  old  churchyard  holds  the  molder- 
ing  tomb  of  Robert  Aiken,  the  "  honor 'd,  much 
171 


Literary  Rambles 

respected  friend"  to  whom  Burns  inscribed  his 
"  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  and  near  by  sleep  the 
doctors  McGill  and  Dalrymple,  who  are  celebrated 
in  "The  Kirk's  Alarm."  Carmichael  Smith,  the 
Colonel  Newcome  of  Thackeray's  tale,  is  buried  in 
the  Episcopal  church,  and  a  memorial  brass  is  there 
erected  by  Thackeray's  daughter,  inscribed  with  a 
quotation  from  "The  Newcomes." 

Our  road  to  Alloway  is  the  one  along  which 
Tarn  o'  Shanter  made  his  memorable  ride 
"thro'  dub  and  mire."  It  lies  between  low 
walls  or  fragrant  hedgerows,  shaded  here  and  there 
by  overhanging  trees  ;  in  places  it  has  been  straight- 
ened since  Tarn's  [time,  but  we  may  still  see 
his  "meikle  stane"  and  the  ford 

"  Where  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd," 

and  a  short  distance  beyond  we  reach  the  rude 
roadside  cottage  in  which  was  born  to  lowly  life 
one  who  has  enriched  the  world  with  his  marvel- 
ous song.  This  thatched,  clay-built  hut,  the 
fancied  scene  of  "The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night," 
was  constructed  by  the  hands  of  Burns' s  father, 
the  " toil- worn  cotter"  of  the  poem,  and  so  un- 
skilfully that  part  of  a  gable  fell  one  tempestuous 
winter  night,  ten  days  after  "Love's  sweetest 
bard  was  born,"  and  mother  and  babe  were  car- 
ried for  shelter  to  the  cottage  on  the  opposite  side 
172 


Alloway  —  Burns's  Birthplace 

of  the  street,  where  Murdoch  subsequently  taught 
the  school  which  Burns  and  his  brother  attended. 

Newer  apartments  have  been  added  to  the 
birthplace,  and  the  two  original  rooms  have  more 
windows  than  Burns  knew,  but  this  rude  stone 
floor  is  the  same  his  infant  feet  pressed,  the  recess 
in  that  side  wall  holds  the  narrow  bed  in  which 
he  was  born,  through  yonder  tiny  window  first 
fell  for  him  the  light  of  heaven,  beside  the  wide 
fireplace  in  (this  nearer  wall  he  played  as  a  child, 
and  around  it,  in  the  maturity  of  his  imagination, 
he  grouped  the  "  priest-like  father  "  and  the  homely 
family  circle  in  one  of  the  most  exquisitely  im- 
pressive scenes  that  poetry  ever  portrayed. 

Among  the  authenticated  relics  here  preserved 
are  the  Afton  manuscript  book  with  sixty-eight 
pages  of  Burns's  handwriting,  including  the  draft  of 
' '  Tarn  o'  Shanter, ' '  his  Edinburgh  commonplace 
book,  manuscripts  of  the  songs  "Lord  Gregory" 
and  "Craigieburn  Wood,"  a  leaf  from  his  excise 
book,  a  lease  containing  the  signature  of  the  "priest- 
like  father"  and  conveying  to  him  the  field  in 
which  he  built  this  cottage.  Here  also  we  see  the 
table  and  candlesticks  from  the  poor  home  in  which 
Burns  died,  the  toddy-ladle  and  wooden  plate  used 
by  him  at  Nanse  Tinnock's,  the  chairs  in  which 
Tarn  o'  Shanter  and  the  souter  sat  to  drink  in 
the  tavern  at  Ayr,  and  a  chair  made  from  the  ma- 

173 


Literary  Rambles 

terials  of  the  press  on  which  the  first  edition  of 
Burns' s  poems  was  printed.  These  precious 
mementos  are  reverently  gazed  upon  by  thousands 
of  pilgrims,  who  bring  to  the  lowly  cottage  from 
every  quarter  of  the  world  their  tribute  of  love  and 
tears. 

The  cottage  is  held  by  a  board  of  trustees,  and 
is  in  charge  of  a  courteous  custodian  who  fills  the 
place  of  one  of  the  heroes  of  Tennyson's  "  Charge 
of  the  Light  Brigade,"  whom  we  found  here  years 
ago.  A  dwelling  for  the  caretaker  has  recently 
been  erected  at  some  distance,  and  the  removal  of 
the  modern  structures  which  adjoin  the  cottage  is 
projected  in  order  to  isolate  that  precious  tenement 
and  to  restore  it  as  nearly  as  possible  to  the  condi- 
tion in  which  it  was  when  it  sheltered  the  germ  of 
the  brightest  genius  of  his  time. 

The  crumbling  walls  of «' Alloway's  auld  haunted 
kirk  ' '  are  just  beyond  the  birthplace.  By  the  en- 
trance to  the  churchyard  is  the  grave  of  Burns' s 
father,  whose  epitaph  was  written  by  the  bard,  and 
of  his  youngest  sister,  and  a  few  steps  back  of  this 
rises  the  roofless  ruin,  with  its  gray,  weather-worn 
walls,  its  steep  gables,  and  quaint  little  belfry.  The 
kirk  is  disappointingly  small, —  Hawthorne  once 
measured  it  and  found  it  not  more  than  seventeen 
of  his  paces  in  length  and  ten  in  width, —  but, 
small  as  it  is,  the  genius  of  the  lad  who  lived  within 


Haunted  Kirk  — Doon  Bridge 

sound  of  its  bell  has  rendered  if  more  famous  than 
the  grandest  temple  on  the  globe.  The  window 
through  which  Tarn  watched  the  gambols  of 
"Cutty-sark"  and  the  rest  has  been  filled  up,  but 
we  may  yet  see  the  " winnock-bunker  "  where  sat 
"auld  Nick  in  shape  of  beast"  to  pipe  for  the 
the  dancers.  Many  graves  crowd  the  old  church- 
yard, and  some  are  even  obtruded  into  the  ivied 
interior  of  the  ruin  and  strew  the  sward  where 
aforetime  the  witches  danced. 

The  half-furlong  of  now  disused  road,  over 
which  Meg  and  Nannie  made  the  race  so  full  of 
peril  for  poor  Tam,  brings  us  to  the  ancient,  ivy- 
grown  bridge  of  Doon.  For  four  centuries  its 
vaulting  gray  stone  arch,  as  light  and  graceful  of 
effect  as  a  cloud-wreath,  has  spanned  the  storied 
stream.  From  the  "key-stane,"  where  Meg  lost 
her  tail,  we  see  a  reach  of  the  river  upbearing  upon 
its  bosom  trailing  boughs,  murmuring  its  content 
beneath  arching  trees ;  and,  upon  either  side,  the 
"bonnie  banks  and  braes"  the  poet  sang,  clothed 
now  in  verdure  of  leaf  and  blade  and  gemmed  with 
summer  flowers  that  bloom  as  fair  as  when  Burns 
wandered  here,  a  barefoot  boy,  and  "pu'd  the  gow- 
ans  fine." 

The  costly  and  incongruous  monument  which 
rises  from  the  banks  of  Doon  might  well  be  passed 
in  silence  did  not  the  chamber  in  its  pedestal  con- 

175 


Literary  Rambles 

tain  objects  which  must  stir  the  heart  of  every  pil- 
grim in  Burnsland.  Here  is  the  ring  with  which 
Burns  wed  his  "Bonnie  Jean,"  removed  from  her 
finger  fifty  years  afterward  when  she  was  dressed  for 
her  coffin,  and  other  rings  containing  hair  from  the 
poet's  dark  locks  ;  here  are  the  cheap,  poorly  printed 
volumes  of  the  Bible  which  he  gave  to  "Highland 
Mary ' '  at  their  betrothal,  with  a  tress  of  her  shining 
hah-  attached  to  one,  and  with  a  text  designed  to 
emphasize  their  vows  written  by  his  hand  in  each 
volume  and  signed,  "Robert  Burns,  Mossgiel"; 
here  are  wine-glasses  presented  by  his  "Clarinda," 
and  other  objects  of  minor  interest.  The  eminence 
of  the  monument  overlooks  a  landscape  of  surpass- 
ing beauty  pervaded  by  the  spirit  and  memory  of 
Burns:  at  our  feet  glides  his  "Bonnie  Doon"  ; 
hard  by  we  see  the  cottage  of  his  fcirth,  the  graves 
of  his  kindred,  the  haunts  of  his  boyhood,  the 
scenes  of  much  of  his  best  and  sweetest  verse  ;  out- 
spread before  us  is  a  sweep  of  verdant  hills  and 
meadowy  holms,  of  deep  woodlands  and  orchards, 
and  the  upland  fields  where  his  young  hands  toiled 
to  help  his  father  to  pay  the  rent. 

A  mile  or  so  farther  we  find,  above  the  braes  of 
Doon,  the  farm  of  Mount  Oliphant,  to  which  the 
Burns  family  removed  from  Alloway  when  the 
future  bard  was  seven  years  old.  Here  he  passed 
ten  years  of  life,  some  of  them  hard  and  monoto- 
176 


Bums  Relics  —  Mount  Oliphant 

nous,  uniting  "the  cheerless  gloom  of  a  hermit 
and  the  unceasing  toil  of  a  galley-slave ' '  ;  and  here, 
also,  he  began  to  exercise  that  divine  gift  of  song 
which  was  destined,  despite  the  pathetic  limitations 
of  his  condition  and  the  faults  of  his  life,  to  bend 
all  hearts  to  his  sway. 

The  poor  farmsteading  of  Burns' s  time  has  been 
replaced  by  the  present  more  attractive  buildings, 
and  of  the  quondam  whitewashed  tenement  hardly 
a  vestige  remains ;  a  few  great  trees  that  he  knew 
cast  their  shade  upon  the  newer  dwelling,  and  an 
old  hedge  which  borders  the  yard  is  said  to  be  a 
survivor  of  his  day.  About  the  house  we  see  bleak 
fields  he  once  tilled,  where  first  he  "held  a  yoking 
at  the  plough,"  and  where  among  the  golden 
harvest  grain  he  found  his  first  sweetheart,  whom 
he  celebrated  in  his  "Handsome  Nell,"  for  his 
earliest  as  well  as  his  latest  poem  was  inspired  by  a 
lass.  As  we  walk  across  the  fields  where  he  made 
love  to  the  blacksmith's  bewitching  daughter  we 
have  in  view  an  entrancing  prospect  which  often 
blessed  the  vision  of  the  bard :  the  course  of  the 
Doon  through  dark  woodlands  and  open  glades ;  a 
pastoral  of  green  fields,  copses,  and  gardens ;  the 
spires  of  "Auld  Ayr"  on  the  shore;  the  misty 
heights  of  far  Arran  and  a  great  expanse  of  shim- 
mering sea. 

Lochlea  farm,  which  became  the  home  of  the 

L  177 


Literary  Rambles 

family  when  driven  from  Mount  Oliphant  by  the 
rapacity  of  the  pitiless  factor  whose  character  Burns 
depicted  in  the  "Tale  of  Twa  Dogs,"  is  reached 
by  a  longer  jaunt.  It  is  an  undulating  tract  of 
above  a  hundred  acres,  manifestly  more  fertile  now 
than  in  the  days  when  the  elder  Burns  was  here 
weighed  to  earth  by  work  and  worry  in  a  struggle 
which  ended  only  with  his  death.  Once  we  saw 
here  a  lintel  and  some  fragments  from  the  barn  that 
Burns  used,  but  no  part  of  the  cluster  of  old  build- 
ings is  now  standing.  From  the  door  of  the  pres- 
ent dwelling  we  see  men  ploughing  and  cattle  feed- 
ing in  the  fields  hallowed  by  the  toil  of  the  bard, 
where  the  spirit  of  poetry  attended  him  in  the  cart 
or  walked  with  him  behind  the  plough.  Not  far 
from  the  end  of  the  house  is  a  large  tree  beneath 
which,  as  Burns' s  niece  told  this  writer,  the  poet, 
reclining  after  a  noon-day  meal,  penned  the  song 
"Now  Westlin  Winds"  to  Peggy  Thomson,  the 
second  of  his  long  procession  of  poetic  heroines  ;  in 
the  rye-grass  field  adjoining  the  house  occurred  the 
misadventure  of  his  pet  ewe  upon  which  he  founded 
the  poem  of  "  Poor  Maillie,"  composed  while  he 
ploughed  in  the  next  field.  At  Lochlea,  too,  he 
wrote  '<  John  Barleycorn,"  the  dirge  on  "Winter," 
and  the  song  "On  Cessnock  Banks."  The  last 
celebrated  the  charms  of  Ellison  Begbie,  a  servant 
in  a  family  of  the  neighborhood,  whom  Burns 
178 


Lochlea  —  Tarbolton  Masonic  Lodge 

vainly  wooed,  and  to  whom  the  first  four  of  his 
published  letters  were  addressed. 

By  the  road,  Tarbolton  would  be  two  or  three 
miles  distant  from  Lochlea,  but  we  find  a  shorter 
way  through  the  fields  —  a  way  doubtless  often  traced 
by  Robin  on  his  nightly  walks  to  the  village  to 
attend  the  dancing-school,  the  Masonic  lodge,  or 
the  Bachelors'  Club,  or  to  make  love  to  sundry  of 
"The  Lasses  of  Tarbolton,"  whom  he  lauded  in 
his  songs.  The  village  is  unattractive :  among  the 
houses  which  closely  line  the  narrow,  curving  streets 
are  a  few  of  modern  construction,  but  more  are 
low  and  dingy  old  fabrics  of  stone  or  stucco,  with 
an  air  suggestive  of  uncleanliness. 

One  little,  low-eaved  old  edifice,  with  grim 
walls  of  stone  and  sloping  roof  of  thatch,  standing 
at  a  corner  of  the  street,  once  housed  the  Masonic 
lodge  into  which  Burns  was  introduced  by  the 
John  Rankine  to  whom  three  of  his  poems  were 
addressed ;  in  this  poor  place  the  poet  was  a  regu- 
lar attendant  at  the  meetings  of  the  fraternity,  here 
he  oft  "presided  o'er  the  sons  of  light,"  and  the 
chair  in  which  he  sat  and  articles  of  regalia  used  by 
him  are  carefully  preserved  in  the  present  more 
sumptuous  quarters  of  the  lodge.  In  this  old  hut 
Burns  read  to  his  fellow-craftsmen  "  The  Farewell," 
written  when  he  was  about  to  emigrate  to  Jamaica, 
and  it  was  some  ostentatious  affectation  of  medical 
179 


Literary  Rambles 

knowledge  displayed  by  the  village  pedagogue 
(John  Wilson)  in  a  meeting  here  that  inspired  the 
grotesque  "Death  and  Doctor  Hornbook,"  which 
the  bard  meditated  as  he  walked  home  from  the 
lodge. 

Wilson's  house,  opposite  the  parish  church,  has 
long  since  disappeared;  the  scene  of  the  bard's 
encounter  with  Death,  as  described  in  the  poetic 
lampoon,  is  still  found  a  little  way  beyond  the  vil- 
lage, where  some  rocks  by  the  roadside  are  shown 
as  the  place  where  the  pair  rested,  while  Death  be- 
wailed the  ready  art  of  his  rival  Doctor  Horn- 
book. Hard  by,  on  the  same  descending  piece 
of  road,  is  the  "Willie's  mill"  of  the  poem, — 
sometime  occupied  by  Burns' s  friend  William 
Muir, —  a  long,  rambling  structure,  of  various 
heights  and  dimensions,  standing  near  a  water  whose 
power  is  now  superseded  by  steam  in  driving  the 
mill's  machinery. 

By   the  sylvan  banks  of  the  Faile  we  come  to 
Coilsfield,  J  where  Burns  knew  and  loved  "High- 
land   Mary,"  and   eastward  a  pleasant  jaunt  leads 
us  to  the  village  of  Mauchline,  which  abounds  with 
memories  of  the  most  fruitful  period  of  Burns' s  life. 
In    the  Cowgate    we    find  the    place  of  the  poor 
thatched  abode  of  the  stonemason  James  Armour, 
in   which    was    born    and    reared    the     dark-eyed 
1  Described  in  "  A  Literary  Pilgrimage." 
1 80 


Mauchline  —  Bonnie  Jean 

daughter  who  became  Burns' s  wife,  and  who,  as 
" Bonnie  Jean,"  is  immortalized  in  several  of  his 
sweetest  songs,  and  the  site  of  the  grass-plat  where 
the  acquaintance  between  the  poet  and  the  winsome 
lass  began  with  some  sportive  banter  anent  his  dog, 
which  had  run  across  the  linen  she  was  spreading 
to  bleach.  A  brick  tenement  now  replaces  the 
ancient  tavern  or  JohnJ  Dove, —  the  "Johnnie 
Pidgeon"  of  Burns' s  "Epitaph"  and  the  "John 
Dow"  of  his  "Epistle  to  John  Kennedy," — to 
which  the  poet  often  resorted  during  his  residence 
at  Mossgiel,  for  he  "loved  a  glass  almost  as  well 
as  a  lass";  but  upon  a  near  corner  is  Poosie 
Nansie's  alehouse,  where  Burns  beheld  the  splore  of 
"The  Jolly  Beggars"  that  suggested  to  him  the 
famous  cantata  which  Allan  Cunningham  deemed 
the  greatest  of  its  kind  in  the  language.  The  house 
is  a  two-storied  stone  structure  with  steep  roofs,  a 
chimney  rises  above  either  sharp  gable,  and  the  end 
facing  the  street  corner  bears  a  legend  which  sets 
forth  the  pretensions  of  this  old  howff.  Within  its 
walls  this  writer  once  found  a  modern  "Jolly 
Beggars'  Club" — a  branch  of  the  Burns  Federation 
— in  session,  and,  lounging  about  the  place,  a  poor 
and  seedy  grandnephew  of  "Bonnie  Jean,"  who, 
among  other  unsuccessful  ventures,  had  tried  the 
healing  art  in  America.  He  appeared  half  ashamed 
of  his  relationship  to  Burns' s  heroine,  but  the  pros- 
181 


Literary  Rambles 

pect  of  a  fee  induced  him  to  pilot  us  to  the  places 
which  had  been  associated  with  her  life  in  the 
village. 

One  of  these  was  the  cheerless  low-studded 
chamber,  with  its  poor  bed  set  in  the  wall,  on  the 
upper  floor  of  a  dismal  stone  tenement  opposite 
Nanse  Tinnock's,  in  which  Jean  began  her  check- 
ered married  life  with  Burns,  through  all  of  which, 
as  she  has  testified,  he  "lo'ed  her  well  and  never 
said  a  misbehadden  word  to  her  in  a'  his  days." 

The  residence  of  Gavin  Hamilton,  Burns' s  land- 
lord and  attached  friend,  was  the  ivy-shaded  edifice 
of  tooled  stone  standing  near  the  churchyard  and 
adjoining  the  ancient  abbey  ruin.  Some  time  ago 
we  saw  the  gloomy  rooms  inhabited  by  the  widow 
of  Hamilton's  son, —  the  wee  lad  mentioned  in 
Burns' s  "Dedication," — who  showed  us  the  bare 
apartment  where  Hamilton  married  the  poet  to 
Jean,  and  where  Burns,  to  win  a  wager,  wrote 
the  stinging  satire  of  "The  Calf"  within  a  half- 
hour  after  he  had  heard  a  sermon  by  one  James 
Steven  from  the  text  in  Malachi,  iv,  2.  In  this 
house  "Highland  Mary"  was  for  a  time  a  domes- 
tic, and  here  Burns' s  mother  saw  and  loved  her. 
Burns  was  here  a  frequent  guest,  welcomed  by 
Hamilton,  whose  friendship  was  one  of  the  most 
important  circumstances  of  the  poet's  life.  Ham- 
ilton—  celebrated  by  Burns  in  the  "Epitaph," 
182 


Gavin  Hamilton's  —  Nanse  Tinnock's 

the  "Dedication,"  and  the  rhyming  "Epistle" — 
was  being  persecuted  by  the  kirk  for  non-observance 
of  some  of  its  ordinances,  and  it  was  the  poet's 
sympathy  for  his  friend  that  partly  prompted  the 
poignant  lampoons,  like  "Holy  Willie's  Prayer," 
"The  Twa  Herds,"  and  "The  Holy  Fair," 
which  Burns  produced  at  that  time,  and  which  he 
read  aloud  to  Hamilton  in  this  old  office-room 
where  we  have  been  sitting. 

By  the  top  of  one  street  stands  another  object  of 
pilgrimage :  it  is  the  grim  two-storied,  hip-roofed 
old  house  at  the  corner,  standing  close  upon  the 
sidewalk,  to  which  low  steps  descend  from  the 
humble  doorway.  Its  surroundings  are  sordid,  its 
rooms  are  few  and  mean,  yet  we  visit  it  more  than 
once,  for  it  was  the  home  of  the  "  lovely  Mary 
Morison ' '  whom  Burns  sang  in  what  Hazlitt  be- 
lieved to  be  the  best  of  his  love-songs,  "O  Mary, 
at  Thy  Window  Be."  Mary's  window  still  com- 
mands the  stretch  of  village  street  by  which  her 
poet-lover  would  approach. 

"Auld  Nanse  Tinnock's"  hostelry,  which 
Burns  mentioned  in  "The  Earnest  Cry  and 
Prayer, "and  where  he  sometimes  "studied  politics 
over  a  glass  of  guid  Scotch  drink,"  is  at  the  border 
of  the  churchyard  on  the  way  along  which  he 
would  come  from  Mossgiel.  It  is  a  dingy-looking, 
weather-beaten  building  of  ancient  masonry,  whose 

183 


Literary  Rambles 

rooms  can  never  have  been  bright  and  lightsome 
with  the  many  gravestones  looking  in  through  the 
dusty  casements.  A  back  door  opening  into  the 
churchyard  in  Burns' s  day  served  the  convenience 
of  the  worshipers,  who,  as  described  in  "The 
Holy  Fair,"  flocked  into  this  change-house  to  re- 
gale themselves  with  cakes  and  ale  in  the  interval 
between  the  Sunday  services. 

A  more  sightly  church  has  replaced  the  ungainly 
edifice  in  which  Burns  listened  to  weekly  exposi- 
tions of  the  fierce  and  bigoted  Presbyterianism  which 
in  that  place  and  time  represented  Christianity, 
from  the  lips  of  the  "Daddy  Auld"  of  his 
"Kirk's  Alarm,"  and  where  he  stood  in  his  seat 
to  be  publicly  rebuked  by  that  preacher  for  his 
misdoing  with  Jean.  The  old  churchyard  is  the 
scene  of  the  witty  "Holy  Fair."  Among  the 
dead  who  fill  it  now  are  some  whose  memories 
have  been  made  famous  or  infamous  by  the  muse 
of  Burns.  Just  at  the  end  of  the  church  sleep  the 
family  of  Miss  Wilhelmina  Alexander,  the  lady  to 
whom  he  addressed  that  beautiful  lyric,  "The 
Lass  o'  Ballochmyle. "  An  obscure  corner  holds 
the  grave  of  "  Daddy  Auld,"  and,  not  far  away, 
a  slab,  from  which  the  inscription  has  crumbled, 
marks  the  resting-place  of  the  pharisaical  elder 
William  Fisher,  whom,  as  "Holy  Willie,"  Burns 
excoriated  in  his  most  pitiless  satire.  Here,  too,  in 
184 


Scene  of  "The  Holy  Fair" — Mossgiel 

the  grave  with  her  father,  lies  the  poet's  Mary  Mor- 
ison,  beneath  a  quaint  old  headstone  whose  inscrip- 
tion shows  that  she  died  at  the  early  age  of  twenty, 
four  years  after  he  had  so  sweetly  sung  her  praises. 
A  simple  railing  of  iron  incloses  the  burial-place  of 
the  Armours — "Bonnie  Jean's"  family.  With 
them  molder  the  ashes  of  Burns' s  infant  children  ; 
Nanse  Tinnock  and  "racer  Jess  "  of  "The  Holy 
Fair  ' '  are  buried  near,  and  Gavin  Hamilton  sleeps 
in  a  grave  which  is  unmarked  by  any  memorial  that 
might  have  borne  the  "Epitaph"  written  by  his 
friend. 

By  a  short  stroll  northward  along  the  highway  in 
which  Burns  met  his  inspirer,  Fun,  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  "Holy  Fair,"  we  approach  Mossgiel, 
the  abode  of  the  bard  during  some  of  his  most 
eventful  and  poetically  productive  years.  The 
farm  lies  upon  an  elevation  which  overlooks  an 
extent  of  beautiful  country  bounded  by  distant 
green  hills.  The  dwelling,  which  stands  well 
back  from  the  highway,  is  a  more  comfortable  and 
commodious  successor  to  the  poor  "but  an'  ben  " 
which  Burns  inhabited.  A  few  years  since  we 
met  in  the  vicinage  the  man  who,  three  decades 
before,  rebuilt  the  cottage,  and  who  pointed  out 
portions  of  the  old  walls  that  were  retained,  and  in- 
dicated that  the  shape  and  extent  of  the  original 
rooms  remained  the  same,  and  that  the  location  of 
185 


Literary  Rambles 

their  windows  was  unchanged.  Other  rooms  are 
now  joined  to  these,  and  Burns's  garret  —  so  low 
that  he  could  not  stand  upright  beneath  the  sloping 
thatch,  lighted  only  by  four  gloomy  little  panes, 
and  reached  by  a  trap-door  from  the  "ben'' 
below  —  is  succeeded  by  a  comfortable  chamber 
beneath  a  roof  of  slate.  In  that  wretched  attic 
Burns  slept,  sharing  his  couch  with  his  brother 
Gilbert  or  the  ploughboy  John  Blane,  and  there, 
upon  a  little  deal  table  under  the  window,  he 
penned  immortal  poems  that  are  read  and  known  of 
all  the  world.  We  will  the  better  appreciate  the 
force  and  character  of  Burns's  genius  if  we  realize 
something  of  this  depressing  environment  and  of  the 
squalid  hindrances  amid  which  that  genius  was 
developed  and  out  of  which  it  broke  forth  like  a 
newly  risen  sun. 

Reminders  of  the  bard  are  here  :  the  tall  hedge 
of  hawthorn  that  screens  the  cottage  was  partly 
planted  by  his  hands;  the  wide-spreading  trees 
that  tower  above  the  roofs  shade  his  accustomed 
resting-place  in  fervent  noon-day  hours;  it  was 
while  weeding  in  the  garden  inclosure  that  he  com- 
pleted and  recited  to  Gilbert  the  wonderful  "Epis- 
tle to  Davie  " ;  in  this  field  behind  the  house  he 
ploughed  up  the  nest  of  the  "  wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin, 
tim'rous  "  mouse,  and  composed  the  poem  which 
that  event  called  forth  ;  in  the  next  field  his  plough 
186 


Mossgiel  Scenes  and  Reminiscences 

turned  under  "The  Mountain  Daisy"  of  his 
verse;  on  yonder  sightly  ridge  he  walked  with  his 
brother  while  he  first  rehearsed  his  masterpiece, 
"The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night";  every  rod  ot 
these  broad  acres  has  felt  the  pressure  of  his  foot  as 
he  followed  his  plough  or  reaped  his  scanty  sheaves, 
gathering  meanwhile  more  opulent  harvests  of  song; 
in  every  direction  are  views  whose  spirit  is  reflected 
in  his  tender  lines,  objects  which  supplied  the  reflec- 
tive imagery  of  his  lyrics,  beloved  scenes  of  his  labor 
or  leisure,  where  we  linger  with  a  thrilling  sense  of 
nearness  to  him. 

At  Mossgiel  were  written,  besides  the  poems 
already  mentioned,  "Halloween,"  "Jolly  Beg- 
gars," "Man  Was  Made  to  Mourn,"  "Winter 
Night,"  "TwaDogs,"  "Address  to  the  Deil," 
the  metrical  satires, —  most  of  the  numbers  of  his 
first  published  edition  which  made  the  whole  coun- 
tryside resound  with  his  praises. 

To  the  Mossgiel  period  of  Burns' s  life  belongs 
the  touching  and  romantic  episode  of  his  association 
with  "  Highland  Mary,"  and  it  was  here  that  tid- 
ings came  to  him  of  her  untimely  death,  the  event 
which  evoked  the  exquisite  poem  "  To  Mary  in 
Heaven."  Here  he  knew  the  concentrated  bitter- 
ness of  ill-requited  drudgery,  poverty,  and  shame, 
and  here  he  tasted  the  joys  of  praise  and  of  instant 
and  unexampled  renown  :  from  Mossgiel  he  set 
187 


Literary  Rambles 

forth  on  his  journey  to  Edinburgh,  poor  and  threat- 
ened with  disgraceful  expatriation ;  to  Mossgiel 
he  returned  a  few  months  later,  relatively  rich  and 
the  most  esteemed  of  all  his  countrymen.  Inter- 
woven with  the  lights  and  shades  of  his  life  here 
was  his  lasting  love  for  Jean,  and  it  was  with  her 
that  he  left  this  place  for  the  lovely  Nithsdale, 
where,  after  a  brief  period  of  happiness,  the  clouds 
closed  over  him,  never  again  to  be  dispelled,  but  to 
settle  in  sable  gloom  above  his  sepulcher. 

Twelve  miles  southward,  along  the  shore  from 
Ayr,  we  come  to  Kirkoswald,  the  place  of  the 
school  where  Burns  spent  his  seventeenth  summer, 
and  of  the  cottage  next  door  where  lived  Peggy 
Thomson,  the  inspirer  of"  Now  Westlin  Winds," 
whose  charms  "  overset  his  trigonometry  and  set 
him  off  at  a  tangent  from  the  sphere  of  his  studies." 
In  the  ancient  parish  churchyard  is  the  grave  of 
"Tarn  o'  Shanter,"  and  nearer  the  coast  is  the 
Shanter  farm  where,  according  to  local  tradition, 
the  boy  Burns  —  then  sojourning  with  his  uncle  in 
this  parish  —  took  refuge  one  night  when  a  storm 
had  driven  him  and  his  companions  from  their 
fishing  on  the  bay.  The  goodman  (Graeme  or 
Graham)  was  absent  at  Ayr  market  when  the 
storm  arose,  and  had  not  returned  at  midnight 
when  the  fishermen  left  his  dame  (Helen)  sulkily 
waiting  for  him  and  predicting  that  his  late  home- 
188 


Kirkoswald  —  The  Shanter  Farm 

comings  would  end  in  his  being  drowned  in  the 
Doon  or  captured  by  warlocks  at  Allo way's  kirk. 

This  Carrick  shore  was  the  birthplace  of  Burns' s 
mother ;  just  beyond  yonder  eastern  hills  Allan 
Ramsay  and  the  Admirable  Crichton  were  born  ; 
and  southward  lies  ancient  Galloway,  where  — 
"but,"  as  Kipling  would  say,  "that  is  another 
story. ' ' 


189 


THE   ENGLISH    LAKELAND 
AND   ITS   MANY  WRITERS 


Jane  Eyre — Robert  Elsmerc — Wilton's  Elleray — Hemans — 
Harriet  Martineau —  Arnold — Rydal  Mount — Nab  Cot- 
tage— Dove  Cottage — Wordsworth  and  De  Quincey — 
Scenes  of  "Opium-Eater*1 — Grasmere  Church  and  Church- 
yard—  Helvellyn  —  Wordsworth"  t  Birthplace  and  School 
— Ruskin's  Brantivood —  Scenes  of  Hall  Caine'i  Fiction^ 
Shelley's  Cottage  —  Home  of  Coleridge  and  Southey. 

UR  tour  of  the  enchanting  Lakeland  has  been 
designedly  delayed  so  that  it  might  at  once 
complete  and  conclude  one  summer's  literary  ram- 
bles in  Britain.  From  the  rocks  of  Craigenputtock, 
where  Carlyle  and  Emerson  "sat  and  talked  of  the 
immortality  of  the  soul";  from  Pennine  heights, 
which  overlook  Scott's  "Rokeby,"  the  haunts  of 
Eugene  Aram,  of  the  sentimental  Sterne,  and  of  the 
gifted  sisters  Bronte  ;  from  craggy  Welsh  headlands  ; 
from  the  railways  by  which  we  have  fared  to  and 
from  the  land  of  Burns,  we  have  had  alluring  pros- 
pects of  the  green  mountain  walls  of  this  delectable 
region  which  has  been  the  abode  of  so  many  be- 
loved authors. 

It  is  a  small  district  to  hold  so  large  a  place  in 
the  world  of  letters,  but  its  diminutive  area  contains 
every  element  and  variety  of  perfect  scenery, — rug- 
ged mountain  mass  and  peaceful  vale,  rocky  ghyll 
190 


The  Lowood  of  "  Jane  Eyre  " 

and  flower-fringed  stream,  wild  tarn  and  placid 
pool,  savage  scaur  and  sunny  mead, —  and  it  is  to 
this  completeness  and  diversity  that  the  region  owes 
its  place  in  song  and  story.  These  are  the  charms 
which  have  drawn  hither  the  many  shining  ones 
whose  lives  and  works  have  contributed  to  make 
every  rod  of  these  landscapes  classic  ground. 

We  are  newly  come  from  the  Bronte  shrines  of 
Yorkshire,  and  we  make  now  a  little  detour  to  reach 
that  once  popular  gateway  to  Lakeland,  Kirby 
Lonsdale, —  celebrated  by  the  pencil  of  Turner  and 
the  pen  of  Ruskin, —  in  whose  neighborhood  we 
find  the  place  of  the  Lowood  Institution  of  "  Jane 
Eyre."  The  school  building,  consisting  of  an  an- 
cient stone-floored  structure  and  of  a  more  modern 
additment  which  was  subsequently  converted  into  a 
factory,  stood  in  a  gloomy  garden  a  few  rods  back 
from  a  little  brook  at  Cowan  Bridge,  in  a  situation 
which  fully  warrants  the  description  given  in  the 
tale.  Of  this  seminary  four  of  the  Brontes  were 
inmates.  Here  Elizabeth  and  Maria  —  the  latter 
being  the  prototype  of  the  Helen  Burns  of  "Jane 
Eyre" — contracted  mortal  maladies,  and  the  sensitive 
Charlotte  witnessed  and  endured  the  cruelties  and 
privations  which  she  portrayed  in  the  story,  and 
which  clouded  her  whole  life.  Casterton  Hall,  a 
wooded  seat  not  far  distant,  was  the  residence  of 
Rev.  William  Carus-Wilson,  who  managed  the 
191 


Literary  Rambles 

school  during  Miss  Bronte's  pupilage  and  is  pic- 
tured as  the  despicable  Brocklehurst. 

Beyond  Kendal,  where  De  Quincey  sometime 
edited  a  newspaper,  and  where  lies  the  scene  of  the 
exploit  ascribed  to  Bertram  Risingham  in  "Rokeby," 
we  dally  along  Kentdale  and  find  ourselves  already 
within  the  borders  of  Lowell's  "Wordsworth- 
shire,"  for  it  was  in  vain  protest  against  the  intrusion 
of  the  railway  into  this  valley  that  the  great  Cum- 
brian bard  wrote  his  sonnet, 

"  Is  then  no  nook  of  English  ground  secure," 

which  elicited  a  poetic  rejoinder  from  his  friend 
Monckton  Milnes.  The  more  remote  portion  of 
the  valley  has  a  newer  interest  for  the  literary 
rambler  since  the  author  of  "Robert  Elsmere " 
wrought  its  atmosphere,  coloring,  and  customs  into 
her  fiction. 

We  have  our  first  glimpse  of  Windermere  from 
Elleray,  long  the  beloved  home  of  Professor  Wilson 
(''Christopher  North"),  whose  wondrous  diction 
so  perfectly  sets  forth  the  beauties  of  lake  and 
shore.  As  we  stand  upon  the  swelling  knoll  near 
Wilson's  picturesque  cottage,  the  morning  mists, 
which  have  hung  like  a  pall  over  the  water,  are 
lifted,  and  the  wealth  of  Windermere,  with  its 
opalescent  expanse  of  water,  its  framing  of  foliage, 
its  emerald  islands,  lies  outspread  before  us.  Be- 
192 


Windermere  —  "  Christopher  North  " 

yond  the  lake  a  long  line  of  mist-touched  mountains 
greets  our  vision  —  the  majestic  Coniston  Old 
Man,  the  serrated  summits  of  the  Langsdale  pikes, 
the  far  ranges  of  purple  fells.  This  lovely  land- 
scape appeals  to  us  as  lovers  of  the  muse  as  well  as 
lovers  of  nature,  for  it  embraces  the  objects  which 
inspired  the  pens  of  Wilson  and  of  many  another 
bard,  and  the  scenes  of  Wordsworth's  vacation 
sports  described  in  his  '*  Prelude," — the  poem 
which  George  Eliot  found  "  full  of  material  for  a 
daily  liturgy." 

Elleray  is  itself  rife  with  endearing  memories. 
To  its  rambling,  rose-covered  old  cottage,  beneath 
the  peerless  sycamore,  the  author  of  the  piquant 
"  Noctes  Ambrosianae  "  brought  his  young  wife  for 
the  " never- waning  honeymoon";  here  his  children 
were  born  and  his  best  and  happiest  years  were  passed; 
within  these  shades  Scott,  Canning,  Lockhart,  and 
Hogg  were  guests ;  hither  the  brilliant  and  bookish 
««  Opium  Eater,"  the  gifted  Hartley  Coleridge,  and 
Wordsworth  came  often,  and,  in  the  halcyon  days, 
lingered  long  in  silvery  converse  with  Wilson,  upon 
the  spots  our  feet  are  to-day  privileged  to  press. 

Strolling  northward,  we  find,  upon  a  wooded 
height  at  the  right  of  the  highway,  the  commanding 
seat  of  Briery,  where  Charlotte  Bronte  was  a  guest 
and  first  met  her  biographer,  Mrs.  Gaskell;  nearer 
the  lake  shore  is  the  little  sylvan  retreat  in  which 

M  193 


Literary  Rambles 

Mrs.  Hemans  dwelt  for  a  time,  where  we  may  see 
the  chamber  which  was  her  study  and  the  embow- 
ered garden  in  which  she  wrote  some  of  her  grace- 
ful verse. 

Toward  Grasmere  every  step  of  our  progress  has 
its  charm.  The  ways  in  which  we  walk  have  been 
familiarly  trodden  by  authors  whom  the  world  will 
long  remember;  every  dale  and  hill  is  hallowed  by 
some  association  with  their  lives  ;  every  feature  of 
the  landscapes  has  been  celebrated  by  them  in  poetry 
or  prose  that  enriches  our  literature.  Ambleside  is 
now  much  more  than  the  «« little  rural  town  "  of 
Wordsworth's  poem  ;  in  its  suburbs  we  find,  over- 
looking the  Rotha  valley  from  a  sunny  eminence, 
Harriet  Martineau's  home,  The  Knoll.  It  is  a 
charming  two-storied,  bay- windowed  villa,  mantled 
with  ivy  and  environed  by  trees  and  shrubbery. 
The  sward  about  the  door  was  planted  by  her.  It 
is  said  that  after  she  had  long  and  vainly  tried  to 
purchase  the  turf  for  this  lawn,  some  cart-loads 
were  thrown  over  her  garden  wall  one  night,  with  a 
note  attached  to  a  slab  of  the  sod,  which  read:  "To 
Harriet  Martineau  —  From  a  lover  of  her  Forest- 
and-Game-Law  tales.  (Signed)  A  Poacher." 

The   prospect  from  her  home  was  so  beautiful 
that    she    sometimes    said    she    "hardly    dared    to 
withdraw  her  eyes  from  it,  for  fear  it  should  melt." 
194 


Harriet  Martineau  —  Dr.  Arnold 

In  this  chosen  site  she  erected  her  house;  here  she 
dwelt  for  thirty  years  and  wrote  once  famous 
books ;  here  she  entertained  Emerson ;  and  to  her 
here  came  George  Eliot  and  Charlotte  Bronte  for 
the  delightful  visits  recorded  in  their  letters.  Miss 
Martineau  is  remembered  in  the  neighborhood  ra- 
ther for  her  active  philanthropy  and  her  eccentri- 
cities than  for  her  literary  productions.  We  talk 
with  some  who  recall  her  peculiarities  of  costume, 
her  masculine  gait,  her  deafness  (for  which  she 
sometimes  smoked),  and  the  great  ear- trumpet  she 
habitually  carried,  and  with  which  she  once  suc- 
cessfully defended  herself  against  a  bull  that  attacked 
her  as  she  crossed  his  pasturage. 

In  a  green  recess  just  across  the  valley  is  Fox 
How,  sometime  the  abode  of  Dr.  Arnold,  the 
great  head  master  of  "Tom  Brown's"  Rugby, 
and  still  inhabited  by  one  of  his  family.  Accord- 
ing to  an  inscription  upon  its  eastern  wall,  the  pic- 
turesque gabled  cottage  was  erected  by  Arnold  in 
1833.  Its  chimneys  are  believed  to  have  been  de- 
signed by  Wordsworth.  Its  situation  is  one  of 
surpassing  loveliness,  and  Miss  Bronte,  who  visited 
the  place  with  Mrs.  Gaskell,  found  "  the  valley 
and  hills  around  beautiful  as  imagination  could 
dream."  Here  that  "apostle  of  light  and  sweet- 
ness," Matthew  Arnold,  and  his  poet-friend  Arthur 
Clough,  inspirer  ot  "The  Scholar- Gypsy," 

195 


Literary  Rambles 

walked  and  wrote  together  for  weeks  at  a  time,  and 
found  in  the  scenery  about  them  and  in  the  com- 
panionship of  the  bard  of  Rydal  Mount  spirit  and 
impulse  for  works  not  soon  to  be  forgotten.  Nearer 
the  foot  of  rocky  Loughrigg  Fell  dwells  Mr.  Gordon 
Wordsworth,  a  grandson  of  the  poet,  who  cherishes 
here  in  his  Stepping  Stones  Cottage  many  relics  and 
souvenirs  of  "  the  water- drinking  bard." 

Rydal  Mount,  the  home  in  which  Wordsworth 
lived  last  and  longest,  must  ever  be  a  goal  for  the 
literary  rambler  in  Lakeland.  We  find  it  nestled 
among  half-concealing  foliage  on  the  rocky  slope  of 
Nab  Scar,  a  few  rods  out  of  the  Grasmere  road. 
The  oft-described  dwelling  has  been  changed  a  little 
since  the  poet  inhabited  it :  the  windows  have  been 
enlarged,  the  interior  arrangement  has  been  modi- 
fied somewhat,  and  the  apartments  decorated  in 
more  modern  fashion  ;  but  the  form  and  size  of  the 
house  are  essentially  unaltered,  it  remains  the  same 
modest  "cottage-like  building"  that  Mrs.  Hemans 
described,  and  the  accredited  pilgrim  may  identify 
the  rooms  in  which  great  poems  were  penned  and 
illustrious  visitors  were  entertained.  "  Ivy  never 
sere ' '  drapes  the  low  portal  and  riots  upon  the 
weather-worn  walls,  and  on  every  hand  is  a  pro- 
fusion of  foliage  and  flowers  which,  together  with 
its  location,  renders  the  place  the  perfect  realization 
of  our  ideal  of  a  poet's  home. 
196 


Wordsworth's  Rydal  Mount 

Much  of  the  loveliness  of  the  spot  is  of  Words- 
worth's creation  :  greensward  and  garden,  terrace 
and  copse,  are  of  his  planning  and  planting,  and 
these  remain,  with  other  objects  once  dear  to  his 
vision.  The  plumy  pines  still  stand  guard  about 
the  gate  ;  this  great  ash  is  yet  the  haunt  of  the 
"tuneful  thrush";  here  are  the  "  Rydalian 
Laurels"  of  his  sonnet,  some  of  them  reared  by 
him  from  slips  taken  by  his  own  hand  from  the 
tree  planted  by  Petrarch  at  Virgil's  tomb  ;  yonder 
is  the  terrace  walk  beneath  whose  archway  of 
foliage  the  poet  paced  or  sat  while  he  "murmured 
out  many  thousands  of  his  verses,"  and  where  he 
recited  to  Emerson  three  just  completed  sonnets  on 
Fingal's  Cave. 

Behind  the  house  rise  the  craggy  steeps  of  Nab 
Scar ;  in  other  directions  extend  glorious  views  em- 
bracing the  Grasmere  vale,  with  its  embosomed  lake  ; 
the  picturesque  Rydal  Water,  with  its  foliage-fringed 
shores  and  fairy  islets  ;  the  overhanging  Loughrigg 
Fell ;  and  the  Rotha  valley  away  to  the  azure  of 
Windermere.  The  abundant  beauties  of  these 
scenes  were  the  unceasing  delight  of  the  poet  as 
well  as  the  inspiration  of  many  of  the  poems  writ- 
ten here  with  mountain,  mere,  and  vale  blessing 
his  sight.  Mrs.  Wordsworth  was  wont  to  say  that 
living  amid  these  landscapes  "made  one  unwilling 
to  die  when  the  time  came"  ;  perhaps  it  was  to 
197 


Literary  Rambles 

detach  her  affections  from  this  environment  that 
physical  vision  was  gradually  withdrawn  from  her 
years  before  her  death. 

Hither  Wordsworth  removed  in  1813  to  escape 
from  the  sad  associations  of  the  Grasmere  rectory, 
where  two  of  his  children  had  died  ;  and  from  this 
home  were  sent  forth  "The  Excursion,"  "Even- 
ing Ode,"  "Laodamia,"  and  many  poems  whose 
sweetness  and  beauty  fixed  the  place  of  the  poet 
among  the  singers  of  the  age.  To  Wordsworth 
here  came  Emerson,  Southey,  Mrs.  Hemans, 
Ruskin,  Martineau,  Mrs.  Howe,  and  an  endless 
procession  of  admirers  from  many  lands  ;  here  that 
erratic  genius  De  Quincey  long  haunted  house  and 
garden;  Arnold,  Clough,  and  the  genial  "Kit 
North ' '  were  at  times  daily  visitants,  and  poor 
Hartley  Coleridge  spent  here  the  most  tranquil 
hours  of  his  unhappy  existence.  Here  Words- 
worth dwelt  for  thirty-seven  years  of  spotless  life  ; 
here  he  beatified  the  marriage  of  his  daughter,  the 
beloved  "Dora"  of  his  poems,  and  mourned  her 
untimely  death  ;  here,  with  the  words  "Going  to 
Dora  ' '  upon  his  lips,  he  passed  to  join 

"  The  dead  yet  sceptred  sovereigns  who  still  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns." 

Here  his  wife  tarried  nine  years  behind  him,  and 

breathed  out  her  life  in  the  same  chamber  which 

198 


Wordsworth — De  Quincey — Coleridge 

had  witnessed  his  death  ;  and  here  now  a  great- 
granddaughter  of  the  bard  inhabits  the  home  which 
will  be  forever  associated  with  the  fame  and  genius 
of  Wordsworth. 

A  lowly  roadside  tenement,  with  vines  clamber- 
ing above  its  door,  stands  in  a  quaint  garden  by 
the  lakelet  a  few  furlongs  from  Rydal  Mount. 
This  is  Nab  Cottage,  where  De  Quincey  wooed  and 
won  his  "  Electra,"  Margaret  Simpson,  and  where 
Hartley  Coleridge  passed  twelve  years  of  the  "  life 
of  alternating  brilliancy  and  tragedy ' '  which  ended 
here  one  wintry  day  of  1849.  Poems  like  "  On 
Prayer,"  "Prometheus,"  "Once  I  was  Young 
and  Fancy  was  my  All,"  and  the  sonnet  on 
"  Homer  "  were  here  the  fruits  of  "  laal  Harley's  " 
melancholy  genius.  Wordsworth  was  then  a  fre- 
quent visitor  at  this  cottage,  constant  in  ministra- 
tions when  the  evil  habit  of  its  inmate  prostrated 
him  and,  as  foreseen  in  Wordsworth's  poem  to 
"H.  C.,  Six  Years  Old," 

"  Pain  was  his  guest, 
Lord  of  his  house  and  hospitality  5  " 

when  poor  Coleridge  lay  dying  here  it  was  the 
gray-haired  poet  laureate  who  knelt  by  his  bedside 
to  pray  and  receive  the  last  sacrament  with  the  son 
of  his  old  friend. 

A  little  way  beyond,  Grasmerevale  holds  a  tiny 
199 


Literary  Rambles 

stone  dwelling  which  is  the  most  popular  and  in- 
teresting shrine  of  pilgrimage  in  all  this  region  of 
poetic  shades  :  for  us  the  Dove  Cottage  is  illumined 
by  memories  of  the  sons  of  genius  who  have  dwelt 
or  sojourned  beneath  its  roof,  and  its  lowly  rooms 
are  forever  hallowed  by  the  works  which  have  been 
written  within  them.  Six  years  before  Words- 
worth wrote  in  "The  Waggoner," 

"  where  the  '  Dove  and  Olive  Bough  * 
Once  hung,  a  Poet  harbors  now, 
A  simple  water-drinking  bard," 

this  quondam  wayside  inn  had  become  his  habita- 
tion ;  De  Quincey  succeeded  the  poet  in  a  pro- 
tracted tenancy  of  the  little  dwelling  ;  later  it  was 
the  abode  of  a  simple  cottager,  and  after  various 
vicissitudes  it  has  now  become,  through  the  enthu- 
siasm of  some  of  Wordsworth's  admirers,  the  prop- 
erty of  the  nation. 

To  this  nest-like  retreat  in  the  heart  of  his  native 
hills  Wordsworth  came  in  1799  with  elfin-faced 
Dorothy,  the  sister  whose  life-long  love  and  devo- 
tion he  sang  in  his  verse.  Here  for  some  years 
they  lived  alone  upon  an  annual  income  of  eighty 
pounds,  Dorothy  doing  servant's  service  in  the 
kitchen,  and  Wordsworth  laboring  in  the  garden, 
cultivating  the  vegetables,  preparing  the  fuel,  per- 
forming rudest  tasks  with  his  hands,  and  pondering 
200 


y  Rambles 

stone  the  most  popular  and  in- 

teresting ihiim  of  pilgrimage  in  all  this  region  of 
poetic  iihatoi :  for  us  the  Dove  Cottage  is  illumined 
by  mexBorMa  >>i  the  sons  of  genius  who  have  dwelt 

wed  by  the  works  which  have  been 
tc  in  "The  Waggoner," 

"  where  the  '  Dove  anii  Oli»e  Bough  * 
1  >!••:  K  hung,  a  Poet  harbor*  now, 
A  wmple  wKcTrilrmkini;  bard," 

uondam  v  me  his  habita- 

De  Quint,  ey  succeeded  the  poet 
trtcted  tenancy  of  tl 

the  abode  of  a  'ttager,  and  after  v 

vicissitudes  it  has  now  become,  through  the  enthu- 
siasm of  some  of  'Wo:  •  admirers,  thc'prop- 

• 

To  this  n  <••  heart  of  his  • 

hills  Word 
Dorothy,  the  . 
tion   he   sang  in   his  vcrv 
they  lived  alone  tipoa  an  ran 
pounds,  Dorothy   ^obf    servant's    service   in   the 
kitchen,  and  Wordsworth  laboring  in  the  g.. 
cultivating  the  veget  aring  the  fuel,  per- 

forming rudest  t  •  rutnds,  and  pondering 

200 


Wordsworth  at  Dove  Cottage 

meanwhile  the  poems  which  he  and  Dorothy  later 
put  into  form  to  celebrate  "the  outward  life  of  nature 
and  the  inward  life  of  the  soul."  To  the  bard  in 
this  homelet  came,  in  1800,  "  that  inspired  charity- 
boy,"  Coleridge,  for  the  first  of  his  prolonged 
sojourns,  bringing  with  him  the  marvelous  lad 
Hartley;  next  came  the  gentle  ft  Elia,"  enticed 
for  once  away  from  his  beloved  London ;  and  a 
little  later  guests  like  the  learned  Davy,  Southey 
the  blameless,  and  Scott,  "  the  Wizard  of  the 
North,"  came  and  went  through  the  humble  door- 
way. Hither,  in  1802,  Wordsworth  brought 
home  Mary  Hutchinson  to  be  his  wife ;  here  his 
adored  " Dora"  was  born,  as  well  as  the  daughter 
Catherine, —  described  in  his  ' '  Characteristics  of  a 
Child  Three  Years  Old," — who  became  the  idol  of 
De  Quincey,  and  whose  early  death  almost  crazed 
with  grief  that  aphelxian  dreamer. 

It  was  during  his  residence  in  this  abode  that 
Wordsworth  reached  the  zenith  of  his  poetic  inspi- 
ration and  power,  and  produced  his  highest  and 
best  of  song  :  here  were  begotten  Matthew,  the 
Wanderer,  the  Solitary,  the  Pastor,  the  Waggoner, 
and  many  another  of  his  characters  who,  for  us, 
still  inhabit  the  surrounding  vales  and  mountains  ; 
here  were  written  "The  Prelude,"  "The  Daffo- 
dils," "The  Recluse,"  "The  Solitary  Reaper," 
the  "Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality,"  most 
201 


Literary  Rambles 

of  the  second  volume  of  "Lyrical  Ballads," — 
poems  some  of  which,  in  all  time  to  come,  will  draw 
men's  hearts. 

In  this  house  the  shy  De  Quincey  made,  when 
a  young  man  of  twenty-two,  the  memorable  first 
visit  to  Wordsworth,  which  he  so  lucidly  described, 
and  two  years  later  —  the  Wordsworths  having  re- 
moved to  Allan  Bank  —  Dorothy  carpeted  and 
fitted  the  diminutive  Dove  Cottage  for  the  bachelor 
home  of  De  Quincey,  who  occupied  it,  with  occa- 
sional absences,  for  more  than  twenty  years.  He 
brought  with  him  the  baneful  opium  habit,  and  here 
he  completely  succumbed  to  the  Circean  spells  of 
the  narcotic.  Dove  Cottage  was  the  scene  of  the 
experiences  detailed  in  " The  Confessions  of  an 
Opium-Eater," — his  ghastly  horrors,  his  despon- 
dency, his  tempestuous  struggles  against  the  dominion 
of  the  fell  drug,  his  partial  triumph, —  all  real  pas- 
sages of  his  own  life.  In  1 8 1 6  he  married  his 
"dear  M."  and  brought  her  to  this  abode  from 
the  adjacent  farm,  and  it  was  in  preparation  for  his 
wedding  that  he  "  descended  suddenly  from  three 
hundred  and  twenty  grains  of  opium  per  day  to 
forty  grains,"  with  the  delightful  results  pictured  in 
the  second  part  of  the  "Confessions."  It  was 
not  until  1830  that  De  Quincey  finally  relinquished 
Dove  Cottage. 

The  cozy  dwelling  has  suffered  little  change,  and, 
202 


De  Quincey  at  Dove  Cottage 

thanks  to  the  care  with  which  the  trustees  have  re- 
stored and  preserved  the  place,  the  literary  pilgrim 
may  see  house  and  garden  in  the  same  quaint  and 
simple  beauty  which  was  familiar  to  Wordsworth 
and  his  friends.  It  was  from  this  same  lowly 
doorway  that  De  Quincey  beheld  the  Easter  Sunday 
morning  vision  of  his  opium  dream.  The  heavy 
entrance-door  still  admits  to  the  lower  apartment, 
"half  kitchen,  half  parlor,"  with  fireplace,  lat- 
.  deed  window,  dark  woodwork,  and  stone  floor  just 
as  Wordsworth  knew  them.  In  this  room  he  re- 
ceived many  of  his  callers;  here  Coleridge  some- 
times slept  ;  before  this  fireplace  he  and  Dorothy 
often  sat  and  talked  "  of  all  dear  things  "  till  three 
o'clock  hi  the  morning;  here,  too,  De  Quincey  saw 
the  turbaned  Malay  whose  appearance  gave  for 
months  an  oriental  imagery  to  the  opium-eater's 
dreams. 

A  narrow  stair  leads  to  a  dusk,  low-ceiled  room 
above,  contrived — "  a  double  debt  to  pay  " — as  sit- 
ting-room and  study.  Here  Wordsworth's  three 
hundred  books  were  shelved  in  the  recess  beside  the 
fireplace,  and  here  "  The  Recluse,"  "  My  Daugh- 
ter Dora,"  and  other  poems  were  dictated  to  Dor- 
othy, and  many  more  copied  and  polished  firm  first 
drafts  brought  in  from  the  orchard  or  from  farther 
walks  abroad.  Here  Wordsworth  listened  to 
Lamb's  letters  on  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads  "  ;  here  he 
203 


Literary  Rambles 

recited  to  the  divine  day-dreamer,  Coleridge,  the 
earlier  books  of  "The  Excursion,"  and  the  latter 
repeatedly  read  to  his  friend  the  second  part  of 
"  Christabel"  as  it  was  in  process  of  composition. 
This  is  the  room,  "  populous  with  books,"  which 
De  Quincey  depicted  so  vividly  in  the  "  Confes- 
sions ' ' :  then  his  five  thousand  volumes  lined 
these  walls,  a  fire  blazed  upon  this  hearth,  a 
little  table  held  a  decanter  of  ruby-colored  lauda- 
num, by  which  De  Quincey  sat  and  sipped  and. 
read  German  metaphysics  nearly  the  whole  night 
through.  The  lovely  young  tea-maker  of  his 
picture  was  his  wife,  who  passed  in  this  cottage 
the  greater  part  of  her  married  life. 

The  small  room  adjoining  was  Wordsworth's 
bedchamber,  later  occupied  by  De  Quincey,  who, 
tended  by  his  faithful  «« Electra,"  here  fought 
with  the  phantoms  of  his  waking  fancy  or  was 
scourged  by  horror-haunted  sleep.  The  room  be- 
neath this  was  Dorothy  Wordsworth's,  and,  from 
the  landing,  steps  lead  to  an  addition  made  by  De 
Quincey  to  hold  his  overflow  of  books.  In  the 
principal  apartment  we  find  the  collection  of  Words- 
worthiana  donated  by  Professor  Knight  ;  the  gift 
includes  also  portraits,  manuscripts,  and  hundreds 
of  letters  and  relics  which  are  to  be  here  preserved. 

Adjoining  the  cottage  is  the  secluded  "plot  of 
orchard-ground,"  with  its  abundant  foliage  and 
flowers,  its  precious  suggestions,  its  wealth  of  poetic 
204 


Literary  Associations  of  Dove  Cottage 

associations  ;  here  wells  the  poet's  spring,  here  are 
the  trees  he  planted,  the  steps  he  cut,  the  spaces  he 
tilled,  the  "rock  seat"  prepared  for  him  by  Cole- 
ridge's loving  hands.  This  is  the 

"  Sweet  orchard-garden  eminently  fair," 

sung  with  varying  phrase  in  many  of  his  stanzas; 
and,  as  we  rest  here,  we  interweave  with  its 
shades  memories  of  « The  Sparrow's  Nest," 
««  The  Daisy,"  "  The  Cuckoo,"  "  The  Butter- 
fly," and  other  poems  produced  while  Wordsworth 
worked  or  walked  in  this  fragrant  retreat.  Here 
Coleridge,  the  "  most  fascinating  talker  in  Eng- 
land," loitered  in  converse  with  Dorothy  during 
long  moonlit  hours  ;  here  played  the  child  Hartley 
Coleridge,  the  "  spirit  that  danced  on  an  aspen 
leaf";  here  Southey  read  to  the  little  circle  his 
metrical  romance  "Thalaba";  here  De  Quincey 
mused  apart  in  the  dim,  mystical  realm  he  loved, 
or  charmed  his  friends  with  the  sweet  and  subtle 
flow  of  his  speech. 

Dwellings  have  multiplied  about  the  once  se- 
cluded cottage,  but  the  environment  retains  much 
of  its  air  of  repose  and  its  essential  features  of  beauty; 
we  see  the  same  "depth  of  vale  below  and  height 
of  hills  above ' ' ;  but  a  few  rods  from  the  cottage 
door  lies  placid  Grasmere,  with 

"  Its  own  green  island  and  its  winding  shores  " 
205 


Literary  Rambles 

and  farther  are  the  "warm  woods,"  "sunny 
hills,"  and  "fresh  green  fields"  of  which  Words- 
worth sang  in  " The  Recluse,"  as  lovely  now  as 
when  they  were  his  daily  haunt. 

Allan  Bank,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  crystal 
mere,  was  the  residence  of  Wordsworth  for  three 
years  after  his  removal  from  Dove  Cottage.  Dur- 
ing half  this  term  Coleridge  shared  the  home  with 
him  and  De  Quincey  was  his  daily  visitor ;  we 
may  imagine  something  of  the  quality  of  the  con- 
versations then  heard  within  that  abode.  The 
Grasmere  rectory,  where  Wordsworth  dwelt  when 
his  children  Catherine  and  Thomas  died,  has  been 
rebuilt,  but  the  quaint  gray  old  church  of  "  The 
Excursion,"  in  which  he  worshiped  for  half  a 
century,  yet  uprears  its  "large  and  massy  pile" 
from  the  opposite  side  of  the  highway.  Within 
we  find  the  features  commemorated  in  the  poem, — 
the  pillars,  the  hewn  timbers  "  like  leafless  under- 
boughs,"  the  "admonitory  texts"  upon  the  an- 
cient walls, —  and,  near  the  place  of  his  pew,  is  a 
marble  tablet  with  a  portrait  of  the  poet  erected  by 
his  friends  and  neighbors  "  in  testimony  of  their 
respect,  affection,  and  gratitude." 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  battlemented  church- 
tower  is  the  peaceful  God's  acre  where,  lulled  by 
bird  and  breeze  and  stream,  Wordsworth  sleeps 
amid  the  scenes  over  which  the  glow  of  his  genius 
has  wrapped  its  light.  Near  him  here  lies  the  Parson 
206 

i 


Grasmere  Church  and  Churchyard 

of  his  "  Excursion  ";  above  him  sway  and  murmur 
the  yews  he  rooted;  his  beloved  Rotha,  "singing 
him  its  best,"  glides  by  the  foot  of  the  near  wall. 
With  him  in  the  same  grave  reposes  his  wife,  be- 
side him  lie  the  devoted  sister  Dorothy  and  the 
daughter  Dora  whose  death  hastened  his  own  and 
stopped  forever  the  current  of  his  song. 

Here,  too,  rests  Catherine  Wordsworth,  the 
child  whom  De  Quincey  so  passionately  loved,  and 
upon  whose  little  grave  he  often  lay  the  whole 
night  long  in  intensity  of  yearning  to  be  near  his 
lost  companion.  A  few  feet  distant,  in  a  spot 
selected  by  Wordsworth  and  marked  now  by  a 
cruciform  stone,  is  the  sepulcher  where  the  aged 
poet  helped  to  lay  the  wasted  body  of  poor  Hart- 
ley Coleridge  one  snowy  winter  day  but  a  few 
months  before  his  own  burial  here.  Within  the 
same  inclosure  is  the  simple  cenotaph  of  one  known 
and  loved  in  America  as  well  as  in  England  —  the 
gifted  Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  whose  ashes  repose  in 
far-away  Florence.  Loving  hands  have  placed 
here  above  his  mother's  grave  a  plain  slab  in  his 
remembrance;  upon  it  are  graven  lines  which  Ten- 
nyson wrote  "In  Memoriam"  of  another  Arthur 
whom  he  also  loved. 

Grasmere  is  a  delightful  place  of  summer  sojourn 
whence  days  of  '« splendid  strolling"  in  the  foot- 
steps of  poets  and  literators   make  us   familiar  with 
207 


Literary  Rambles 

scenes  they  have  haunted  and  hallowed.  One 
day  our  way  is  over  "The  Kirkstone  Pass'*  of 
Wordsworth's  poem,  and  by  the  Brothers'  Water 
where  his  "  Written  in  March  "  was  composed, 
to  Ullswater  (the  "  Ulfo's  lake"  of  Scott),  on 
whose  marge  the  golden  daffodils  yet  flutter  and 
dance  as  in  the  day  they  inspired  Wordsworth's 
matchless  lyric,  and  to  picturesque  Aira  Force,  the 
scene  of  his  pathetic  ballad,  '«  The  Somnambulist." 
Returning,  we  "  climb  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty 
Helvellyn  "  in  the  track  of  Scott,  Wordsworth, 
and  Davy,  and  follow  that  trio  to  the  spot  in  the 
bosom  of  the  mountain  — 

"  A  lofty  precipice  in  front, 
A  silent  tarn  below  ' ' — 

where  young  Gough  perished  and  his  dog  kept 
vigil  by  his  body  until  discovered  by  a  shepherd 
three  months  after  the  accident.  Scott's  "Hel- 
vellyn" and  Wordsworth's  "Fidelity"  celebrate 
the  faithfulness  of  the  dog,  and  the  place  is  now 
marked  by  a  monument  erected  by  Canon  Rawns- 
ley  and  Frances  Power  Cobbe. 

In  other  days  we  fare  to  Hawkshead,  where  we 
see  the  school  in  which  Wordsworth  was  eight 
years  a  pupil,  with  its  old  walls  and  the  oaken 
bench  which  bears  his  name  carved  in  boyish 
characters,  the  quaint  old  house  where  he  lodged 
208 


Scenes  of  Many  Poems 

with  Dame  Tyson  and  wrote  his  first  poems,  the 
church  sitting  "like  a  throned  lady"  above  the 
ancient  village,  the  grassy  churchyard  upon  the 
slope,  and  other  scenes  over  which  he  lingers  lov- 
ingly in  his  "Prelude";  or  to  far  Cockermouth, 
where  we  find  the  plain,  square,  factory-like  dwell- 
ing in  which  Wordsworth  was  born,  the  garden 
where  he  played  as  a  child,  and  that  "  tempting 
playmate,"  the  Derwent,  that  «'  blent  its  murmurs 
with  his  nurse's  song";  or  we  trace  that  once 
«'  fairest  of  all  rivers  "  to  Bassenthwaite,  upon  whose 
shores  Lord  Hough  ton,  Fitzgerald  (the  translator  of 
Omar's  "Rubaiyat"),  Tennyson,  and  the  sage  of 
Chelsea  sojourned  with  the  Speddings.  Here  Car- 
lyle  rested  after  the  completion  of  his  "  Frederick 
the  Great,"  and  here  Tennyson  revised  and  pol- 
ished his  "  Morte  D' Arthur." 

In  one  memorable  jaunt  a  poet  of  our  own  time 
is  our  guide  and  companion.  First  to  the  chapel- 
yard  where  was  buried  Owen  Lloyd,  the  subject  of 
Wordsworth's  touching  ««  Epitaph  " ;  farther  up  the 
valley  we  visit  the  wild  Dungeon  Ghyll  fall,  so 
accurately  described  in  his  «'  Idle  Shepherd  Boys  "; 
thence  —  the  miles  becoming  more  steep,  savage, 
and  solitary  as  we  proceed  —  we  press  on  to  Sty- 
head  Pass  and  climb  the  rugged  acclivities  of  that 
monarch  of  England's  mountains,  Scafell  Pike.  We 
find  the  reward  gf  QUT  exertions  in  the  magnificent 
N  209 


Literary  Rambles 

view  which  Wordsworth  portrayed  in  some  of  the 
best  passages  of  his  prose. 

Mountains  "stern  and  earthquake-tossed"  are 
about  us  on  every  hand;  the  "  battlemented  front  of 
Scafell ' '  towers  close  by,  with  wild  Wastwater  at 
its  foot  and  the  classic  vale  of  Wordsworth's  "  long- 
loved  Duddon  " — of  which  he  sang  in  thirty-four 
sonnets  — just  beyond.  Farther  is  the  lofty  "  Black 
Comb ' '  of  his  poem,  and  on  the  horizon  shines 
the  summer  sea.  In  another  direction  opens  the 
storied  Borrowdale  and  the  Great  Gable  uprears  the 
summit  whence  Carlyle  beheld  the  mountain  pros- 
pect he  pictured  in  "Sartor  Resartus."  Away  to 
the  left  lies  gloomy  Ennerdale;  the  Pillar  "  rises 
like  a  column  from  the  vale  "  in  the  mid-distance; 
and,  across  a  score  of  tumultuous  mountains,  we  see 
the  shoreland  where  the  poet  of  "  The  Faerie 
Queen ' '  is  said  to  have  wooed  the  ' '  gray-eyed 
maiden  of  St.  Bees." 

By  way  of  the  lowly  vale  of  the  Blea  Tarn  and 
the  little  stone-floored  cottage  where  dwelt  the 
Solitary  of  Wordsworth's  "Excursion"  we  walk 
to  the  beautiful  lakeside  retreat  of  Ruskin.  Some- 
time the  abode  of  the  poet  Gerald  Massey,  who 
was  the  model  for  George  Eliot's  "Felix  Holt," 
Brantwood  has  also  been  tenanted  by  Mrs.  Lynn 
Linton,  who  here  wrote  her  "Lake  Country," 
and  for  above  a  quarter  of  a  century  it  was  famous 
210 


Home  of  Ruskin 

as  the  chosen  retirement  in  which  the  great  author 
of  "  Modern  Painters"  was  spending  the  evening 
of  his  pure  and  passionless  life. 

Brantwood  overlooks  Coniston  Lake  from  the 
eastern  shore;  its  lawns  decline  to  the  water-edge; 
its  woods  half  encircle  the  house  and  clothe  the 
steeps  hehind.  The  place  owes  much  besides  its 
renown  to  the  ownership  of  Ruskin:  the  house 
was  enlarged  and  embellished  by  him,  the  beauties 
of  the  grounds  are  largely  of  his  planning  and  pro- 
duction, the  orchard  was  planted  by  his  own  hands, 
he  laid  out  and  cultivated  the  near-by  garden,  his 
arm  felled  the  trees  to  open  the  walks  along  the 
wooded  hillside.  The  mansion  is  a  spacious,  ir- 
regular, two-storied  edifice  of  stucco,  mantled  by 
climbing  vines;  a  larch-shaded  way  leads  to  the 
Doric  porch  that  shelters  the  entrance. 

We  are  permitted  to  see  the  principal  apart- 
ments, with  their  charming  window-vistas  and 
their  precious  contents, — minerals,  manuscripts, 
coins,  curios,  and  numerous  gems  of  art,  including 
the  Turner  masterpieces  and  some  of  Ruskin' s  own 
sketches  and  drawings, —  remaining  mostly  undis- 
turbed since  the  master  arranged  them  here.  Ad- 
jacent to  the  dining-room  is  the  sanctuary  of  the 
place,  the  flower-decked  study, —  its  bay-window 
overlooking  the  lake,— where  much  of  Ruskin' s  later 
literary  tasks  were  wrought,  whence  he  sent  forth 

211 


Literary  Rambles 

his  last  message  to  the  world,  and  where  his  body 
lay  in  state  awaiting  burial.  Above  the  study  is 
the  chamber  in  which  he  died,  filled,  like  the  other 
apartments,  with  articles  of  vertu  and  rare  works 
of  art. 

His  "  Praeterita  "  reveals  his  enduring  love  for 
this  neighborhood,  which  he  had  visited  as  a  child. 
The  same  book  describes,  in  the  beloved  "Joanna," 
his  cousin  Mrs.  Arthur  Severn,  wife  of  the  son  of 
Keats' s  guardian  friend,  to  whose  care  Ruskin  ascribed 
"  more  than  life  for  many  and  many  a  year,"  who 
long  presided  over  his  home  and  devotedly  cher- 
ished and  tended  him  in  his  age  and  decadence,  and 
who,  with  her  husband,  now  owns  the  estate  of 
Brantwood,  and,  in  accordance  with  the  master's 
will,  maintains  it  in  the  condition  in  which  it  was 
when  he  died. 

A  friend  of  Ruskin' s  sits  with  us  upon  the  mas- 
ter's accustomed  seat  by  the  shore,  and  conducts  us 
up  his  woodland  path  to  his  outlook  on  the  moor, 
whence  we  gaze  upon  the  prospect  which,  during 
many  years,  he  daily  beheld  :  —  Scott's  "mighty 
Helvellyn,"  Martineau's  "dear  old  Fairfield," 
and  many  other  minor  peaks,  the  near  lake  with  its 
sentinel  hills,  and  Coniston  Old  Man  with  the  sun 
setting  in  roseate  splendor  behind  his  rugged  heights. 
At  the  mountain's  foot  nestles  the  gray  village  in 
whose  little  churchyard,  among  his  beloved  pines 

212 


Ruskin  —  Rossetti  —  Hall  Caine 

and  deodars  and  close  by  the  graves  of  the  friends 
to  whom  were  addressed  the  famous  letters  of  his 
"  Hortus  Inclusus,"  Ruskin  sleeps  beneath  a  wreath 
of  his  favorite  flowers. 

His  biographer,  Collingwood,  lives  not  far  from 
Ruskin' s  former  home,  Tennyson  stayed  for  a  time 
a  little  farther  up  the  lake,  and  upon  the  opposite 
shore  is  the  ancient  hall  where  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
was  often  the  guest  of  the  Countess  of  Pembroke. 

Dorothy  Wordsworth  once  walked  from  Gras- 
mere  to  Keswick  in  four  hours  and  twenty-five 
minutes  ;  at  a  more  leisurely  pace  we  follow  her 
track  past  "  Wythburn's  modest  house  of  prayer  " 
(it  has  been  embellished  with  a  bell-tower  since 
Wordsworth  described  it)  to  Thirlmere.  Beside  a 
pool  of  Fisher's  Ghyll  we  found  a  solitary  little 
farmhouse  in  which  Rossetti  passed  some  part  of  his 
last  year  and  accomplished  his  last  work.  Here, 
too,  he  meditated  a  ballad  "  illustrative  of  the  ser- 
pent fascination  of  beauty ' ' ;  and  here  Hall  Caine, 
who  was  Rossetti' s  companion,  contemplated  writ- 
ing his  first  novel  and  founding  it  upon  a  Cumbrian 
tradition  heard  from  his  maternal  grandfather. 

The  region  of  Caine' s  early  fiction,  into  which  he 

has  woven  so  much  of  local  dialect  and  folk-lore, 

lies  around  us  here  at  Thirlmere.      Wythburn  is  a 

central  scene  of  his  "Shadow  of  a  Crime,"  Thirl  - 

213 


Literary  Rambles 

mere  is  his  "  Bracken  Water  "  and  Shoulthwaite 
and  Fornside  are  in  the  vicinage  ;  westward,  just 
beyond  Derwentwater,  is  the  drowsy  vale  of  New- 
lands,  the  theater  of  his  "A  Son  of  Hagar," 
where  we  may  see  the  mines,  the  place  of  the  Rit- 
son  homestead  by  the  base  of  Eel  Crags,  of  the 
humbler  dwelling  of  poor  Mercy  and  the  charcoal- 
burner  farther  up  the  dale,  the  summit  of  the  lofty 
fell  where  Hugh  went  to  die  at  daybreak,  and  other 
scenes  of  that  exciting  tale. 

A  plain,  square  two-storied  house  standing  in 
the  midst  of  a  garden  and  shrubbery  by  the  junc- 
tion of  the  Keswick  and  Threlkeld  roads  was 
purchased  by  Caine  from  the  proceeds  of  his  play 
"  Ben-my-Chree,"  and  was  for  four  years  his 
home.  In  his  study  here  "The  Bondman"  was 
completed  and  portions  of  a  "  Life  of  Christ" 
and  "The  Scapegoat"  were  written.  From 
Thirlmere  we  take  the  longer  way  by  the  beautiful 
vale  of  St.  John,  along  Scott's  "winding  brook- 
let," and  through  the  scenes  of  his  own  heart's 
romance  as  well  as  those  of  his  "  Bridal  of  Trier- 
main." 

Nearer  Keswick  is  the  cottage  to  which  Shelley 
came  hi  the  honeymoon,  bearing  with  him  his  girl- 
wife,  the  Harriet  to  whom  he  dedicated  "Queen 
Mab,"  and  whose  young  life  was  to  end  so 
pitiably.  The  dwelling  has  been  enlarged  and 
214 


Shelley  —  Summit  of  Skiddaw 

altered,  but  we  still  see  the  neat  little  bay-windowed 
room  where  Southey  and  his  wife  visited  the  youth- 
ful pair,  and  where  Shelley  sat  to  write  the  tale  of 
"Hubert  Cauvin"  and  many  short  poems  and 
essays.  About  the  place  are  trees  and  flowering 
shrubs  which  the  Shelleys  must  have  known,  and 
the  garden  in  which  they  "ran  about  when  they 
were  tired  of  sitting  in  the  house,"  as  Mrs.  Shelley 
told  a  visitor,  remains,  though  now  considerably 
diminished. 

Looking  down  from  the  grassy  slopes  of  Skid- 
daw,  with  Keswick  at  our  feet  and  a  measureless 
expanse  of  sea,  mountains,  lakes,  and  vales  greeting 
our  vision,  we  think  rather  of  the  many  of  the 
guild  of  letters  who  have  dwelt  or  sojourned  within 
this  wide  horizon.  Upon  the  lofty  summit  we 
are  subtly  conscious  of  the  companionship  of  starry 
spirits  —  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Southey,  Keats, 
Rogers,  Lockhart,  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb,  and 
others  whom  we  may  not  forget  —  who  have  stood 
where  we  now  stand  and  have  gazed  in  rapture 
upon  these  inspiring  landscapes.  While  we  linger 
here  the  memory  of  one  incongruous  incident  will 
intrude  itself  upon  the  sober  reveries  which  the 
place  evokes:  one  night  in  the  summer  of  1815, 
Southey,  Wordsworth,  and  "  Rag,  Tag,  and  Bob- 
tail ' '  came  to  this  summit  and  celebrated  the  victory 
at  Waterloo  by  a  great  bonfire,  and  many  of  the 
215 


Literary  Rambles 

company  became  hilariously  intoxicated  because,  in 
the  excitement  of  the  occasion,  Wordsworth  kicked 
over  the  water,  and  the  stimulants  had  to  be  taken 
undiluted. 

After  a  morning's  exploration  of  the  rugged 
chasm  where  "  the  water  comes  down  at  Lodore" 
far  less  copiously  than  Southey's  lyric  has  led  us  to 
expect,  we  visit  the  old  hall  which  was  so  long  the 
habitation  of  that  pure-hearted  bard.  Coleridge 
first  dwelt  in  Greta  Hall,  and  it  was  his  accounts  of 
the  country  to  his  brother-in-law  Southey  that  in- 
duced the  latter  to  come  and  share  this  house  with 
him.  A  year  after  Southey's  arrival  Coleridge 
began  his  wanderings,  and  soon  ceased  altogether 
to  return  to  the  place,  leaving  his  family  to  the 
care  and  support  of  the  beneficent  Southey. 

Here  Coleridge  wrote  the  wondrous  ode  "De- 
jection" and  the  second  part  of  "  Christabel," 
and  here  was  born  his  daughter  Sara,  one  of  "the 
lovely  Three"  of  Wordsworth's  "Triad."  In 
1803  Southey  began  here  the  life  of  scholarly  se- 
clusion and  unwearied  literary  labor  which  was  to 
continue  in  this  place  through  four  decades,  and 
from  which  proffers  of  a  baronetcy,  of  a  seat  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  of  a  richly  salaried  editorship 
failed  to  allure  him. 

The  hall  crowns  a  green  bank  beside  the  mur- 
muring "Greta"  of  which  Wordsworth  sang. 
216 


Home  of  Coleridge  and  Southey 

Behind  it  towers  massive  Skiddaw;  about  it  are 
ample  gardens  which  slope  to  the  river,  and  great 
trees  beneath  which  Southey  walked,  Coleridge 
lay  and  dreamed,  and  Charles  Lamb  sometime  dis- 
ported with  his  "minutest  of  minute  philosophers," 
the  boy  Hartley.  The  house  is  a  square  stuccoed 
edifice  of  three  stories,  with  a  curved  extension  at 
either  end.  Coleridge  occupied  the  rooms  at  the 
left  of  the  central  entrance,  Southey  those  at  the 
right.  On  the  lower  floor  we  see  the  dining  and 
breakfast  rooms  which  the  poets  called  "Peter" 
and  "Paul."  Above  is  the  great  study  —  so 
large  'Southey  declared  that  in  it  he  "at  first  felt 
like  a  cock-robin  in  an  empty  church. ' '  From  its 
large  windows  we  behold  the  natural  beauties 
which  were  the  poet's  solace  and  delight,  and  which 
he  pictured  in  his  ''Vision  of  Judgment" — the 
flashing  lakes,  the  smiling  valley,  the  billowy  moun- 
tains "reaching  half  way  to  heaven."  Here  he 
sat  to  write  much  of  his  poetry  and  more  than 
thirty  volumes  of  lucid  and  polished  prose,  besides 
hundreds  of  essays  and  articles  for  periodicals  ;  and 
here,  after  his  mind  was  clouded,  he  lingered  among 
his  books,  fondly  patting  them  or  softly  turning 
their  leaves  when  he  no  longer  comprehended  their 
contents. 

The  smaller  room  north  of  this  was  Coleridge's 
study,    and    near  by    is    the    chamber    in    which 
217 


Literary  Rambles 

Southey's  wife,  the  Edith  to  whom  his  "Joan  of 
Arc ' '  and  many  earlier  poems  were  dedicated, 
died  after  the  long  period  of  mental  unsoundness 
which  drew  from  Wordsworth  the  poem  «« Oh, 
What  a  Wreck ! ' '  Throughout  her  sad  affliction 
Southey  was  her  comforter  and  guardian,  and  this 
room,  which  was  the  scene  of  his  tender  ministra- 
tions, witnessed  also  the  final  release  of  his  own 
darkened  spirit. 

A  few  furlongs  from  his  home  we  find  in  Cross- 
thwaite  church  the  altar-tomb  erected  in  memory  of 
the  gentle-hearted  Southey.  One  end  bears  Words- 
worth's touching  tribute  to  his  friend,  and  reclin- 
ing upon  the  base,  book  in  hand,  is  a  marble 
effigy  which  inadequately  represents  the  personal 
beauty  of  the  bard  whom  Byron  once  called  "  the 
best-looking  poet  he  had  known."  A  well-worn 
path  leads  through  the  churchyard  to  the  low  slab 
of  slate  that  indicates  the  spot  Southey  chose  for  his 
burial.  One  boisterous  March  morning,  while  the 
white-haired  Wordsworth  stood  in  the  storm  by 
the  grave,  the  wreck  of  poor  Southey  was  laid  in 
"the  insensate  earth  "  here,  beside  his  wife  and 
children,  and  here,  with  giant  Skiddaw  overlooking 
his  sepulcher,  he  awaits  the  resurrection  that  may 
restore  his  genius  and  power. 


218 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Abbott,  Dr.  Charles  C.,  106-115  ;  Home  and  Work,  107- 
no  ;  Scenes  of  Books,  110-115. 

Agnew,  Mary,  27. 

Akenside,  Dr.  Mark,  mentioned,  156. 

Allan  Bank,  206. 

Ailing  House,  Newark,  44. 

Alloway,  172—176. 

Ambleside,  194—196. 

Aram,  Eugene,  mentioned,  190;  see  "A   Literary  Pilgrim- 
age," 144-147- 

Ardsley,  18. 

Arnold,  Edwin,  mentioned,  90. 

Arnold,  George,  40. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  122,  195,  196,  198. 

Arnold,  Thomas  (Dr.),  mentioned,  198  ;  at  Fox  How,  195. 

Artemus  Ward,  17,  136. 

Audubon,   John  J.,    17,    91  ;    see    "Literary    Haunts    and 
Homes,"  91. 

Ayr,  Old,  170-173,  177,  188. 

Ayrshire,  170-189  ;  see  "  A  Literary  Pilgrimage,"  181—201. 

Bangs,  John  Kendrick,  Home  of,  18. 

Barr,  Amelia  E.,  at  Cornwall,  29. 

Bassenthwaite,  209. 

"Ben  Bolt,"  About,  50,  51,  52. 

Bentham,  Jeremy,  mentioned,  41. 

Benton,  Joel,    31. 

Besant,  Sir  Walter,  140. 

Betterton,  Thomas,  mentioned,  136. 

Beverley,  N.  J.,  100,  101. 

Bigelow,  John,  Home  on  Hudson,  23. 

Black,  William,  126,  138. 

221 


Index 

Blunt,  Lady  Anne,  165. 
Blunt,  Sir  Wilfrid,  165. 
"Bonnie  Jean,"  Burns's,  176,  180,  181,  182,  184,  185, 

i  St. 

Booth,  Mary  L.,  80. 
Bordentown,  103—106. 
Bourne,  Vincent,  mentioned,  1 21. 
Brantwood,  Ruskin's,  210—213. 
Bronte,    Charlotte,    190-192,    193,    195;   see   "A   Literary 

Pilgrimage,"  121—135,  207—225. 
Brooks,  Noah,  42,  49. 
Browning,  Elizabeth  B.,  48,  141. 
Browning,  Robert,  48,  141,  142. 
Bruce,  James,  145. 
Bryant,  William  Cullen,  16,  23,  31,  41,  49,  181,  182,  183, 

184,  186,  187  j  see  "  Literary  Haunts  and  Homes,"  65, 

136-142. 

Buchanan,  Robert,  90. 
Bucke,  Dr.  R.  M.,  87,  90. 
Buckle,  Henry  Thomas,  143. 

Bulwer-Lytton,  Edward  George,  mentioned,  121,  141. 
Burlington,  101-103. 
Burns,  Robert,  Birthplace,  172-174;  Homes,  170,  173,  176, 

177,  185  ;  Scenes  of  Poems,  171,  173,  174,  175,  178, 

179,  180,  181,  182,  184,  186,  187. 
Burnsland,  170-189  ;  see  "  A  Literary  Pilgrimage,"  164-166, 

181—206. 

Burr,  Aaron,  36,  43,  44. 
Burritt,  Elihu,  mentioned,  136. 

Burroughs,  John,  mentioned,  90  ;  Homes  of,  31—34. 
Butler,  Samuel,  mentioned,  122. 
Butler,  William  Allen,  18. 
Byron,  Ada,  154,  159,  162,  163,  165-168. 
Byron,  Lady,  159,  167,  169. 


Index 

Byron,  Lord,  125,  141  ;  at  Harrow  School,  146—155  5  Tomb, 
157-169  ;  see  "A  Literary  Pilgrimage,"  62-90,  226- 
236. 

Caine,  Hall,  213,  214  j  at  Keswick,  214;  Seats  of  Fiction, 
213,  214. 

Camden,  86-95,  97-99;   see  "Literary  Shrines,"  201—217. 

Campbell,  Thomas,  mentioned,  170. 

Canning,  George,  mentioned,  193. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  121,  141,  190,  209,  210;  see  "A  Liter- 
ary Pilgrimage,"  33—35,  162—164,  167-170. 

Carrick,  189. 

Catskills,  35. 

Cedar  Lawn,  Headley's,  29,  30. 

Century  Club,  40. 

Charlcote,  138,  139. 

Charles  Town,  Stockton  at,  77,  78. 

Chateaubriand,  Viscount  de,  45. 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  122. 

Chaworth,  Mary  Ann,  153,  154,  157  ;  see  "A  Literary  Pil- 
grimage," 71-79. 

Chelsea,  121  ;  see  "  A  Literary  Pilgrimage,"  28—37. 

Cherry  Croft,  Mrs.  Barr's,  29. 

Childs,  George  William,  35. 

Chiswick,  121. 

"  Christopher  North,"  192,  193,  198. 

Churchill,  Winston,  Homes  of,  1 8,  19. 

Cincinnati,  Society  of,  30. 

Claremont  Hill,  1 6. 

Clark,  Lewis  Gay  lord,  19. 

Clemens,  Samuel  L.,  "Mark  Twain,"  mentioned,  138  ;  see 
"  Literary  Haunts  and  Homes,"  195-198. 

"Clementine,"  Mrs.  Howarth,  90,  115—118. 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh,  195,  196,  198  ;  Cenotaph,  207. 

Cobbe,  Frances  Power,  208. 

223 


Index 

Cobbett,  William,  izi. 

Cockermouth,  209. 

Cockloft  Hall,  42,  55-58. 

Cold  Spring,  N.  Y.,  23-25. 

Coleridge,  Hartley,   193,  198,  201,  217  ;    Grave,  207  ;  Nab 

Cottage,  199. 
Coleridge,  Samuel  T.,  156,  206,  215  ;  at  Dove  Cottage,  201, 

204,  205  ;  at  Greta  Hall,  216,  217. 
Coles,  Dr.  Abraham,  43,  47,  49. 
Colling  wood,  213. 
Collins,  Wilkie,  mentioned,  138. 
Communipaw,  40. 
Compton  Wynyates,  122. 
Coniston,  211,  212,  213. 
Constitution  Island,  Miss  Warner's,  20-22. 
Convent,  New  Jersey,  Stockton,  69—73. 
Conway,  Moncure  D.,  mentioned,  90,  138. 
Cook,  Clarence,  31. 
Cook,  Eliza,  143. 
Cooper,   James  Fenimore,    15,    30,    35,   39,  40,  100,  102; 

Birthplace,   101  ;   see  "Literary  Haunts  and    Homes," 

I54-I73- 
Cornwall,  25—29. 
Cowley,  Abraham,  1 21. 
Cozzens,  Frederick  S.,  17. 
Crabbe,  George,  mentioned,  41. 
Craigenputtock,  Carlyle's,  190  ;  see  "A  Literary  Pilgrimage," 

167-170. 
Craik,  Dinah   Mulock,  1225  see  "A  Literary  Pilgrimage," 

92. 

Crane,  Stephen,  42  ;  Birthplace,  46. 
Crichton,  James,  189. 
Cro'  Nest,  23. 
Crossthwaite,  218. 

224 


Index 

Cruikshank,  George,  142. 

Culprit  Fay,  The,  23. 

Cumnor,  122. 

Cunningham,  Allan,  143,  181. 

Curtis,  George  William,  39. 

Cuvier,  Baron,  mentioned,  44. 

Dana,  Richard  H.,  mentioned,  26. 

Davy,  Sir  Humphry,  mentioned,  201,  208. 

Delaware  River,  On  the,  86,  100—118. 

De  Quincey,  Thomas,  140,  192,  193,  198,  199,  206,  207  ; 
at  Dove  Cottage,  200-205. 

De  Trobriand,  Philip  Regis,  mentioned,  26. 

Dickens,  Charles,  125,  138,  141,  142,  144,  156  ;  see  "A 
Literary  Pilgrimage,"  49-61. 

Dodge,  Mary  Mapes,  47,  70. 

Donder  Berg,  20. 

Doon,  The,  175,  176. 

Douglas,  Amanda  M.,  Home,  59,  60. 

Dove  Cottage,  199-206. 

Drake,  Jos.  Rodman,  23  ;  see  "  Literary  Haunts  and  Homes," 
39,  100-103. 

Drayton,  Michael,  135,  136. 

Du  Maurier,  George,  52,  142,  156. 

Duyvel's  Dans  Kamer,  31. 

Dyer,  John,  mentioned,  122. 

Eastlake,  Sir  Charles,  143. 

Elleray,  193. 

Emerson,  R.  W.,  85,  90,  190,  195,  197,  198  ;  see  "Lit- 
erary Shrines,"  45-51,  77,  78. 

English,  Dr.  Thomas  Dunn,  42,  43,  102  ;  at  Home,  49-53. 

Fawcett,  Arthur,  41. 

Fay,  Theodore  Sedgwick,  mentioned,  1 6, 

Field,  David  Dudley,  1 8. 

Fielding,  Henry,  mentioned,  121. 

o  225 


Index 

Fields,  James  T.,  mentioned,  26. 

Fishkill,  30. 

Fishkill-on-Hudson,  30,  31. 

Fitzgerald,  Edward,  mentioned,  209. 

Forney,  John  W.,  mentioned,  90. 

Foster,  John  Y.,  47. 

Fox  How,  Arnold's,  195. 

Frost,  Arthur  B.,  71. 

Fulham,  121. 

Garrick,  David,  mentioned,  136. 

Garth,  Sir  Samuel,  150. 

Gaskell,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Cleghorn,  193,  195. 

George  Eliot,  mentioned,  122,  195,  210;   see  "A  Literary 

Pilgrimage,"  91—105. 
Gibbon,  Edward,  121. 

Gilder,  Jeanette  L.,  42,  43,  46,  47,  105,  106,  114. 
Gilder,  Joseph,  105,  106,  114. 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson,  42,  43,  46,  47,  105,  106,  116. 
Glasgow,  170. 

Goethe,  von,  Johann  W.,  mentioned,  41. 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  mentioned,  156. 
Grange,  The,  Philipse's,  20. 

Grasmere,  197—207  ;  Church  and  Churchyard,  206,  207. 
Gray,  Thomas,  155  ;  see  "A  Literary  Pilgrimage,"  39-48. 
Greta  Hall,  216,  21 8. 
Guiccioli,  Countess,  168. 
Habberton,  John,  65. 
Halleck,  Fitz-Greene,  17,  26,  41,  45  ;  see  "Literary  Haunts 

and  Homes." 
Hamilton,  Alexander,  36. 
Hamilton,  Gavin,  182,  183,  185. 
Hammersmith,  121. 

Hampstead,  156  ;  see  "  A  Literary  Pilgrimage,"  13-21. 
Handel,  Georg  F.,  155. 

226 


Index 

Harrow,  145-156. 

Harte,  Bret,  73. 

Hastings,  18. 

Hathaway  Cottage,  136-138. 

Hawkshead,  208,  209. 

Hawthorne,  Julian,  144. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  144,    174;  see  "  Literary   Shrines," 

29-38,  58-67,  76-78,  ISS-^8- 
Hawthorne,  Mrs.  Nathaniel,  Grave  of,  144. 
Hazlitt,  William,  140,  183. 
Headley's  Cedar  Lawn,  29,  30. 
Helvellyn,  208,  212. 
Hemans,  Felicia  D.,  194,  196,  198. 
Herbert,  Henry  William,  48,  51,  60-63,  64 ;   Home  at  The 

Cedars,  60-62  ;  Tomb,  62,  63. 

Highgate,  155,  156  ;  see  "  A  Literary  Pilgrimage,"  21-23. 
Highland  Falls,  23. 
"Highland   Mary,"    170,    176,    180,    182,    187;    see  "A 

Literary  Pilgrimage,"  194-205. 
Hobhouse,  Lord,  1 60. 
Hoboken,   16,  40,  41. 
Hoffman,  Matilda,  1 6  ;  see  "Literary  Haunts  and  Homes," 

49- 

Hogarth,  William,  121,  156. 
Hogg,  James,  mentioned,  193. 
Holmes,  Oliver  W.,  mentioned,  43  ;  see  "Literary  Shrines," 

94-97- 

Holt,  Stockton's,  69—73. 
Hood,  Thomas,  Grave  of,  143. 
Hook,  Theodore,  mentioned,  1 21,  145. 
Hopkinson,  Francis,  104. 
Hopkinson,  Joseph,  104. 
Houghton,  Lord,  17,  31,  90,  143,  1192,  209. 
Howarth,  Ellen  Clementine,  90  ;  Homes,  115-118. 

227 


Index 

Howe,  Julia  Ward,  116,  198  ;  see  "  Literary  Shrines,"  98. 

Hucknall-Torkard,  157-169. 

Hudson  Highlands,  20—30. 

Hudson  River,  15-38. 

Hughes,  Thomas,  mentioned,  122.. 

Hunt,  Leigh,  mentioned,  121,  156  ;  Grave,  142,  143. 

"  Ichabod  Crane,"  Home  and  Grave,  38. 

Idlewild,  Willis's,  24—27. 

Irvine,  170. 

Irving,  Edward,  mentioned,  170. 

Irving,  Peter,  55. 

Irving,  Washington,  15,    16,    17,    19,   20,  23,  24,  30,  35, 

38,  41,   42,    54,    55-58;    see  "Literary   Haunts   and 

Homes,"    174-192. 
Jameson,  Anna,  143. 
"Jane  Eyre,"  191. 
Jefferson,  Joseph,  132. 
Jersey  City,  40. 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  mentioned,  145,  156. 
Jones,  Sir  William,  mentioned,  145. 
Jonson,  Ben,  mentioned,  130,  136. 
Juliustown,  103. 

"Junius,"  121.  • 

Kean,  Edmund,  121. 
Keats,  John,  mentioned,  156,  212,  215;  see   "A   Literary 

Pilgrimage,"  15-17,  19,  25. 
Kelmscott,  122. 

Kemble,  Gouverneur,  20,  55,  58  ;  Home,  23,  24. 
Kennedy,  John  P.,  24. 
Kensal  Green,  Literary  Graves  of,  141-145. 
Keswick,  214—218. 
Kinderhook,  38. 
Kinney,  Elizabeth  C.,  48. 
Kirkoswald,  188. 

228 


Index 

Knight,  Professor,  204. 

Lakes,  The  English,  190-218. 

Lamb,  Charles,  140,  201,  203,  215,  217. 

Lamb,  Mary,  mentioned,  215. 

Leech,  John,  142. 

Leigh,  Mrs.  Augusta  (Byron),  164,  165,  167. 

Lemon,  Mark,  mentioned,  138. 

Lindenwold,  35. 

Linton,  Mrs.  Lynn,  210. 

Lippincott,  Joshua  R.,  103. 

Loantaka  Valley,  69. 

Lochlea  Farm,  177-179. 

Lockhart,  John  G.,  mentioned,  193,  215. 

Lodore  Falls,  216. 

London,  121,   140,    141,    155,  157  ;  see  "  A   Literary  Pil- 
grimage," 13-37. 

Longfellow,  Henry  W.,  mentioned,  90,  136,  138  ;  see  "Lit- 
erary Shrines,"  106-109. 

Lossing,  Benson  J.,  24. 

Lowell,    James    Russell,     mentioned,    192 ;     see     "  Literary 
Shrines,"  110-114. 

"Lowood,"  Bronte,  191. 

Luddington,  139. 

Mabie,  Hamilton  W.,  69. 

Madison,  New  Jersey,  69. 

"Major  Jack  Downing,"  57. 

"  Marion  Harland,"  48,  49. 

Mark  Twain,   mentioned,    138;    see  "Literary   Haunts  and 
Homes,"    195—197. 

Marryat,  Capt.  Frederick,  121. 

Martineau,  Harriet,  mentioned,  198  ;  Home,  194,  195. 

Massey,  Gerald,  136,  210. 

Mathers,  Margaret  Herbert,  62. 

Mauchline,  180-184. 

229 


Index 

McCarthy,  Justin  H.,  mentioned,  90. 

McLellan,  Isaac,  6 1  ;  see  "  Literary  Haunts  and  Homes," 
147,  148. 

Merwin,  Jesse,  37,  38. 

Millais,  John  Everett,  142. 

Miller,  Joaquin,  90,  165. 

Milnes,  Monckton,  mentioned,  17,  31,  143,  192,  209. 

Montclair,  65. 

Moore,  Thomas,  104;  in  Newark,  53,  54. 

Morris,  George  P.,  24,  25,  26. 

Morris,  William,  mentioned,  122. 

Morristown,  69,  73. 

Mossgiel  Farm,  183,  185-188. 

Motley,  John  L.,  142. 

Motherwell,  William,  mentioned,  170. 

Mount  Gulian,  30,  31. 

Mount  Oliphant,  176,  177. 

Mulock,  Dinah,  mentioned,  122  ;  see  "A  Literary  Pilgrim- 
age," 92. 

Nab  Cottage,  199. 

Nast,  Thomas,  73. 

Newark,  42—63. 

Newburg  and  Bay,  25,  29,  30,  31. 

Newlands,  214. 

Newstead  Abbey,  mentioned,  157,  160,  161,  162,  163;  see 
"A  Literary  Pilgrimage,"  80—90. 

Nutley,  65. 

Nyack,  19. 

Ogden,  Henry,  mentioned,  55. 

Orange  Mountain,  65,  69,  72. 

Paine,  Thomas,  104 ;  see  "  Literary  Haunts  and  Homes,"  155. 

Palmer,  Ray,  59. 

Paulding,  James  K.,  20,  24,  31,  34,  55-58  ;  at  Placedentia, 
34 j  see  "  Literary  Haunts  and  Homes." 

230 


Index 

Pavonia,  40. 

Peel,  Robert,  145,  147,  151. 

Perceval,  Spencer,  mentioned,  145,  147. 

Philipse's  Grange,  20. 

Piermont,  19. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  16,  20,  45  ;  see  "Literary  Haunts  and 
Homes,"  104-128. 

Pope,  Alexander,  121,  156. 

Poughkeepsie,  31. 

Princeton  College,  44. 

Putney,  121. 

Ramapo,  mentioned,  72. 

Ramsay,  Allan,  189. 

Rawnsley,  Canon,  208. 

Richardson,  Samuel,  121. 

Ripley,  George,  mentioned,  136. 

Riverby,  Burroughs's,  31-33. 

Roe,  E.  P.,  Homes  of,  23,  27-29. 

Roelands,  27,  28. 

Roe  Park,  28. 

Rogers,  Samuel,  mentioned,  215. 

"  Rokeby,"  Scott's,  190,  192. 

Rossetti,  Dante,  G.,  90,  121,  122,  127,  213  ;  see  "A  Liter- 
ary Pilgrimage,"  31-34. 

"Rudder  Grange,"  Stockton's,  65-68. 

Rugby,  mentioned,  122. 

Ruskin,  John,  mentioned,  90,  191,  198  ;  Brantwood  Home, 
210—213. 

Rutherford,  64-68. 

Rydal  Mount,  Wordsworth's,  196-198. 

Saint  John,  Vale  of,  214. 

Sands,  Robert  C.,  16,  40,  41. 

Scafell  Pike,  209,  210. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  41,  122,  125,  193,  201,  208,  212,  214. 

231 


Index 

Shakespeare,  Judith,  124,  126. 

Shakespeare,  William,  121-139  ;  Birthplace,  123  ;  Memorial, 

X35»  J3*>  j  New  Place,  127-129  ;  Tomb,  131-134. 
Shanter  Farm,  188. 
Shaw,  Dr.  Albert,  1 8. 
Shelley,  Harriet,  214,  215. 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  45,  46,  122,  156  ;   Residence  at  Kes- 

wick,  214,  215}  see  "A  Literary  Pilgrimage,"   229- 

231. 

Sheridan,  Richard  B.,  141,  145. 
Shottery,  136—138. 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  213. 
Sketch  Club,  40. 
Skiddaw,  215-218. 
Slabsides,  Burroughs's,  33,  34. 
Sleepy  Hollow,  19  ;  see  "  Literary  Haunts  and  Homes,"  186- 

192. 

Smith,  Elizabeth  Oakes,  116. 
Smith,   Sydney,  141,    143;   see  "A   Literary  Pilgrimage," 

148—160. 

Snake  Hill,  41,  42. 
Somervile,  William,  mentioned,  122. 
Southey,  Robert,  198,  201,  215  ;  at  Keswick,  216-218. 
Southworth,  Emma  D.  E.  N.,  17. 
Speed,  John  Gilmer,  73. 
Spenser,  Edmund,  210. 
Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence,  46,  47,  48  ;  Newark  Home,  47  ; 

see  "Literary  Haunts  and  Homes." 
Stephens,  Ann  S.,  35. 
Sterne,  Laurence,  141,  190  ;   see  "  A  Literary  Pilgrimage," 

III-I20. 

Stockton,  Frank  R.,  64-84,  102,  103  ;  in  Virginia,  73-84  ; 
Homes,  Claymont,  77—84  ;  Convent,  69-73  ;  Elmwood, 
74,  75  ;  Lego,  75,  76  ;  Rutherford,  64-68. 
232 


Index 

Stoddard,    Richard    Henry,    mentioned,   47  ;    see   "  Literary 

Haunts  and  Homes." 

Stoke  Pogis,  155  ;  see  "A  Literary  Pilgrimage,"  39—48. 
Stratford-on-Avon,  121-139. 
Sunnyside,  Irving' s,  19  ;  see  "  Literary  Haunts  and  Homes," 

174-184. 

Swinburne,  Algernon,  mentioned,  90,  121. 
Symonds,  John  Addington,  mentioned,  90. 
Talleyrand,  Prince,  44. 
Tannahill,  Robert,  170. 
Tappan  Sea,  19. 
Tarbolton,  179,  1 80. 
Tarry  town,    19;  see  "Literary  Haunts  and  Homes,"  184- 

192. 

Taylor,  Bayard,  26,  27,  47,  125,  136. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  85,  90,  122,  125,  138,  207,  209,  213. 
Thackeray,  William  M.,  17,  125,    147,  156,  172;   Grave, 

142. 

Thames,  155. 

Thames  Literary  Shrines,  121,  122;  see  "A  Literary  Pil- 
grimage," 24-38.     . 
Thirlmere,  213,   214. 
Thomson,  James,  izi. 
Thoreau,  Henry   D.,    39  ;   see   "Literary  Shrines,"  19—22, 

39-41,  68-74. 

Timber  Creek,  Walt  Whitman,  95—97. 
Townsend,  Mary  A.,  30. 
Traubel,  Horace  L.,  94,  95. 
Trenton,   106-118. 
Trollope,  Anthony,  142,  145,  146. 
Turner,  Joseph  M.  W.,  mentioned,  191  ;  see  "  A  Literary 

Pilgrimage,"  37,    142-3. 
Twickenham,  121. 
Undercliff,  Gen.  Morris's,  24,  25. 

233 


Index 

Vale  of  Saint  John,  214. 

Van  Buren,  Martin,  35,  36. 

Van  Dyke,  Dr.  Henry,  16. 

Verplanck,  Gulian  C.,  16,  30,  41. 

Virginia,  Stockton  in,  73—84. 

Walpole,  Horace,  mentioned,  121. 

Walton,  Isaac,  mentioned,  125. 

Ward,  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps,  59. 

Ward,  Herbert  D.,  59. 

Ward,  Mrs.  Humphry,  192. 

Ward,  Dr.  William  Hayes,  59. 

Warner,  Anna  B.,  20. 

Warner,  Charles   Dudley,  136;    see    "Literary   Haunts  and 

Homes,"  197-200. 
Warner,  Henry  W.,  21. 

Warner,  Susan,  Grave  of,  22  j  Home  of,  20—23. 
Warren,  Samuel,  mentioned,  140. 
Warwick,  mentioned,  122. 
Watchung  Mountain,  65,  69,  72. 
West  Park,  Burroughs,  31-33. 
Whipple,  E.  P.,  mentioned,  26. 
Whitefield,  George,  43. 
Whitman  Land,  32-34. 
Whitman,  Walt,  Haunts  of,  85-99  5   Camden  Homes,  86- 

95  ;  Grave  at  Harleigh,  97-99  5  Timber  Creek,  95-97  ; 

see  "Literary  Shrines,"  201-217  i  see  "  Literary  Haunts 

and  Homes,"  135-147. 
Whittier,  John  G.,  mentioned,  43;    see  "Literary  Shrines," 

122-127,  138-9. 

Wildman,  Col.  Thomas,  151,  160,  163,  167. 
Willis,  N.  P.,  24,  52  ;  Home,  25-27. 
Wilmcote,  139. 
Wilson,  John,  192,  193,  198. 
Windermere,  192-194,  197. 

234 


Index 

Winter,  William,  mentioned,  39,  132,  136. 

Wolsey,  Thomas,  155. 

Wordsworth,    192,    193,    194,    195,    196,    199,   208,  209, 

210,    213,    215,    216,    217,  218;    Birthplace,    209; 

Dove   Cottage,  200-206  ;   Grasmere   Churchyard,  206, 

207  ;   Hawkshead  School,  208-9  5   Rydal  Mount,  196- 

199. 
Wordsworth,  Dorothy,  200,  201,  202,  203,  204,  205,  207, 

213. 

Yates,  Edmund,  mentioned,  136. 
Yonkers,  17,  1 8. 


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